


I didn't mean it like that.

by freefall_through_fandom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Big Brother Mycroft, Comforting, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established- Mystrade, Feels, Fluff, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg fucks up, Greg has a big family, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Family, Human Greg, Insecurity, M/M, Minor Anthea, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mr and Mrs Holmes are good parents, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Greg, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Sherlock's a difficult brother, Some angst, Teen Mycroft, Teenlock, Weight Gain, chubby!mycroft, insecure!Mycroft, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:25:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefall_through_fandom/pseuds/freefall_through_fandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's struggle with his weight affects more than just his wardrobe. Can their relationship last? Can Greg fix his mistakes? Can Mycroft learn to accept that other people make mistakes too? Follow the boys as they battle through the twists and turns of being a teenager, and the difficulty of trying to keep a relationship survive through thick and thin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heading Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you all so much for the Kudos on my other story, I can't tell you how happy it has made me knowing that you liked it. I hope you enjoy this story too - hopefully I'll be able to update it soon. Feel free to leave a comment, let me know if what you thought of it :) If you spot a mistake I'd love to know too. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I've adjusted the age gap between Mycroft and Sherlock, the start of the story Mycroft will have recently turned seventeen, Sherlock is fifteen.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock, or any of his stories. The show is the work of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, while Sherlock Holmes itself is the creation of Arthur Conan Doyle.

Mycroft had been doing so well. Each day was a struggle, a mini-battle commencing at breakfast and ending when he crawled into bed each night, but he still was doing well. Every calorie was accounted for, he went for a jog before breakfast, and he didn’t have any biscuits with his tea. It had been working, not only had he managed to reach his goal weight, but he was actually managing to maintain it too, even going so far as to swap out his wardrobe for clothes of a much more satisfactory size before he’d left, planning to continue his method once he was back at Eton.

 

For a while he managed, his uniform – a few sizes smaller than the ones Mycroft had been wearing the previous terms – stayed the right size for about…well, just less than a month he’d say. Mycroft knew straight away what was happening, he could see himself slipping into old habits, forfeiting the morning run for an extra cup of tea, buying a packet of biscuits when he went out, getting the food that looked good not the healthy ones he should. He noticed everything. But he didn’t stop it, he just made excuses and carried on. Most of the excuses were true. He was homesick, so he’d have a full English for breakfast because it reminded him of holidays at home. He missed his parents and Sherlock, so he’d buy some biscuits because on bad days his mum would give them all one. He was stressed, so he baked, because that was what he always did…and he missed Greg. So he did the thing that came automatically to him. He ate.

 

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t enjoy being back at school. It was so much more peaceful than home, and he could work properly without being judged because of his intelligence. He was _respected_ for it, not taunted. It was only natural to be a little homesick, or to miss your family and friends, and despite how much Mycroft tried not to be he was still only human.  He still talked to them, ringing his family, and Greg, he wasn’t completely isolated from them. There was a certain element of freedom too that was far more enjoyable than he’d expected. There were no looks if he had a biscuit with his tea, and no one expected him to eat salads every lunch. No one cared if he just stayed in his room reading instead of going for that jog. No one cared. And so Mycroft didn’t bother, convincing himself that if no one cared then it couldn’t be that bad and he shouldn’t care either. That had been a mistake.

 

By the time the Christmas break rolled around all Mycroft’s work had been destroyed. No longer did the uniform fit, nor did the new uniform he’d bought, and the new, new uniform that came after was still more of a squeeze than it should have been, constricting him uncomfortably. The last week had been…well, it had been stressful to say the least. No one at Eton cared, but at home they would, and considering the difference from when he’d left…they were going to notice immediately too. He’d spent the last twelve hours meticulously packing up his room – they had a month long break at Christmas and New Years – carefully organising his books into boxes and emptying all of his things from the surprisingly modern dorm room. Mycroft knew that there was no way he could get the uniform to fit any better before his father arrived in what he estimated to be thirty-eight minutes and twelve seconds if he’d calculated the traffic right, but that didn’t stop him from tugging at it.

 

Anyone that had met Mycroft knew that he wasn’t a nervous person. Jittering and panicking were for other people, he was always so calm and collected, concealing each of his emotions perfectly behind the mask that was just so very him. So very in control. Except right at that moment he’d let the mask slip. It was only his Father, he shouldn’t be so stressed about it, but the last time he’d been seen by anyone of importance to him he’d been the thinnest he could remember, now his weight was back up to what he assumed was close enough to his highest. He didn’t want to let them down and he didn’t want to see the look on his face when his father first saw him.

 

Mycroft made himself stop and draw a long breath, deciding it was too risky to smoke with his father so close. He could do this. He was Mycroft Holmes, he wasn’t going to panic or get wound up about something as trivial as his appearance. He was better than that. He stood for another moment after his pep talk before finishing packing his room, placing his pillows on top of the pile of boxes just as there was a knock on the door, one he immediately recognised to be his father’s. With one last futile attempt to make his uniform fit better he headed over to the door and opened it for him, barely even stopping to smile at his father before he started ‘checking’ the room for anything he’d forgotten to pack. He already had everything, he’d ticked them off his list as he packed, but by pretending to be busy he was giving his father a chance to adjust to how big he’d gotten when Mycroft didn’t have to see, and judging by his long pause at the door he _was_ adjusting.

 

Each second dragged for Mycroft as he waited for him to say something. Anything. Mycroft didn’t have anything to say first. “Well? Do I not get a hug? We both know you’ve packed everything” his father asked, obviously realising that Mycroft wasn’t going to crack first. Even without turning round Mycroft could hear the smile in his voice, shock giving way into being happy to see his son for the first time in months. Mycroft stopped the false search turning around and walking over to his father, scanning over him properly as he did. He looked the same as always, the pronounced bone structure, the greying hair, the same twinkle in his eyes and the grin that permeated most memories Mycroft had of childhood. He was never much of a person for physical contact, but he hadn’t seen him for months and he had missed him even if he wouldn’t admit it. Wrapping his arms around him Mycroft realised with a small amount of amusement that he was almost as tall as him, just an inch or two shorter. “It’s good to see you.” His father murmured.

 

“It’s good to see you too.” He responded, allowing the hug to go on for a few seconds longer before he finally pulled back. Instinctively tugging at his uniform as he stepped away, waiting for the inevitable comment. Only it didn’t come, all his father did was look around the room, nodding at how clean it was and the fact that Mycroft didn’t have a roommate. Both were preferences of Mycroft’s. There wasn’t really that much stuff to carry, and so his father took two of the boxes and the pillow.

 

“Right let’s get this stuff in the car and we’ll get you home.”  He said, propping the door open with his foot as Mycroft shouldered his bag and the last couple of boxes. “We’ve tried to keep Sherlock out of your room for you, but just in case I’d make sure you check for flammable chemicals and things hiding around your room.” He warned.

 

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at that as he followed out of the room, pausing momentarily to lock the door of the now empty room behind him. “I’ll be certain to keep that in mind. I’m assuming that his behaviour hasn’t changed since the last time I called?” he said, his already perfectly enunciated voice sounding even ‘posher’ than usual. He liked it though, it made his words clearer, gave them more authority. His father led the way to the car, helping to organize the boxes into the boot, all the while answering Mycroft’s enquiries about home. Of course he could always just read it from him, but he hadn’t had spoken to his father in person for too long to do that, and besides, life was excruciatingly boring if you never said anything.

 

Once they were both sat in the car though, and both their questions had been answered they settled into the comfortable silence that they so often shared. Both his mother and Sherlock were much too excitable and dramatic to sit in the quiet, but for Mycroft and his father it was easy. They could both agree that they’d had a good catch-up if they’d just sat in silence in the library at home. A fact that would forever confuse the others. Thankfully the topic never once steered too close to his weight for comfort, it didn’t even seem like he was trying to avoid it, although Mycroft could easily see that he was. They only stopped once on the trip home to put more petrol in the car, Mycroft stayed in his seat as his father went out to pay, returning with a cup of – in Mycroft’s opinion sub-par but necessary – tea and a sandwich each, flicking on the radio as they ate.

 

The radio provided great comfort to Mycroft, who was all of a sudden feeling very nervous and embarrassed about eating in front of his father. The radio was a great distraction, and Mycroft ate quickly, taking longer for his barely palatable tea. They set off again fairly quickly, but the radio stayed on. Every now and then his father would start singing along to some song or other with his low gravely voice, keeping Mycroft’s attention off the fact that his mother had yet to see him and that Sherlock was going to have some rather harsh barbs to shoot at him.

 

Arriving at home was bittersweet. It was so familiar, so comforting to be at home again, yet at the same time it meant going through their reactions. Home was a little more than most other people’s. It was more of a manor house, it was clearly big, the front porch overlooking the yard which was filled with shrubbery and once bright plants that had died for the winter. Mycroft climbed out of the car, scanning over the house to check for any alterations before starting towards the boot. “No no, you go on in, I’ll get your things.” his father waved him off assumingly. Mycroft smiled and mumbled a ‘thanks’ before turning and heading into the house, the door already unlocked waiting for him.

 

“Hel-“ he managed to call before he was enveloped into a hug by a short, but strong woman that smelled of lavender and lemons. Her arms were around him before he’d really noticed she was there. “Hello Mummy.” He greeted softly unable to stop the smile from forming on his lips. He’d missed her too.

 

“Oh Mycie, we’ve missed you so much…I’m so glad you’re home” she gushed planting a kiss on his cheek before stepping back and holding him at arms reach to get a better look at him. She didn’t say anything about it immediately, but he saw the shock in her eyes, and the following pity for him. “Oh you’ve really grown haven’t you? ” she said. It could have been worse, not much worse, but she could have said something explicitly about his weight, this time she’d managed to restrain herself and say something that alluded to his height too. A snort from the staircase showed that he wasn’t the only one to pick up on the double entendre. Mycroft’s eyes flicked over immediately, scanning over Sherlock with practiced efficiency and detail.  “I didn’t mean it like that…I’ll go help your father.” His Mother told him obviously not wanting him to feel bad and patting him gently on the shoulder before heading out. It was a little too late for that though.

 

Sherlock had shot up too; he was still shorter than Mycroft but not by too much. His frame was just as worryingly thin as always, his mop of dark curls sitting atop an unusual but certainly striking bone structure. “It’s good to see you Sherlock.” He greeted with a smile, deciding to leave the fact that Sherlock was still smoking out of the conversation for the time being. Sherlock’s ice blue eyes that he shared with his mother were sweeping over Mycroft too, a smirk curling on his lips as it did.

 

“Brother.” Sherlock said simply in greeting, but there was a mischievous edge to his voice that Mycroft didn’t like but was all too familiar. “You’re certainly looking…well. ” He continued watching for a response to see if this was as big a gold mine as he expected it to be. Mycroft’s smile tightened, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was a dead give away that his words were having an effect on him, but he hadn’t been able to stop it in time. This was going to be a problem. Sherlock immediately knew what to say to hurt Mycroft, and while Mycroft knew what would be just as effective to Sherlock he wouldn’t actually say it. It was a game he could never win without upsetting Sherlock too much.

 

“I feel well, thank-you.” He told him smoothly. It sounded flawless, but Sherlock would be able to read it for the lie it was. How could he feel well when he’s failed so miserably? In all honesty he felt sick, because he knew now everyone was expecting him to start over, and he knew that they’d all be shocked and perhaps a little disgusted like Sherlock seemed to be. He didn’t care what most people thought, his family one of the exceptions. The other was one Gregory Lestrade. Popular boy, school jock, probably the most attractive boy on this side of London, incredibly caring and somehow he liked Mycroft. It was difficult to believe that someone as wonderful as Greg could like him in the first place, let alone like this.

 

 It was one of the main reasons he’d stuck to his diet so well in the first place. It felt like the least he could do was make himself at least a little more attractive for Greg, and he’d been so supportive. He didn’t know how he was going to let Greg see him, or how Greg was going to react. He just didn’t know if he could take what he imagined what Greg would do. Before Sherlock had time to respond their parents entered the house again, holding all the boxes. Sherlock sighed and slunk off to his room most likely. Mycroft smiled at his parents, taking a few of the boxes from his mother with a quiet thanks as he started heading up the stairs to his room. “If it’s acceptable with you I’m going to unpack and get settled in.” he said, though really it was more of a statement than asking for their opinion.

 

“That’s fine sweetheart, I’ll call you down for dinner and you can tell us everything then.” His mother smiled, while his dad just nodded and hummed in agreement, following Mycroft up the stairs with the rest of the boxes. Mycroft wasn’t exactly looking forwards to talking about school, because no doubt his weight would be made a topic, but he decided to cross that bridge when he got to it. He put the boxes on the floor and his father followed suit. The room was exactly as he remembered it, and it didn’t look like Sherlock had gotten around to setting up traps for him yet. The walls were the same white as always, the king-size bed with his freshly washed grey bedspread and his desk and bookshelves patiently waiting for all his things to be redistributed and organised. The only thing he didn’t recognise was an envelope sitting on the desk. Even from that distance he recognised the handwriting. Greg had left him a letter; clearly it’d been written and delivered earlier that day. He didn’t look at the wardrobe or the draws, well aware that every article of clothes would be too small for him. All he had were the ones he’d bought at school.

 

His father turned to leave him be, gently patting him on the shoulder as he walked past, “We’re glad that you’re home.” He said heading to the door and pausing for a moment, half turning to Mycroft as he added “…try not to feel uncomfortable. We’re your family, you’ll always be perfect to us.” He smiled and left, closing the door behind him. Mycroft didn’t know how he knew to say something like that considering Mycroft kept his emotions under check, but even then it did little to soothe him. He just closed his eyes, running a hand though his slightly curly auburn hair and took a deep breath. He didn’t have to look in a mirror so long as he kept away from the en suit and didn’t open the wardrobe. That was good at least.

 

After a few minutes of trying to collect his thoughts he opened his eyes and headed over to the letter from Greg, opening it and scanning over it immediately.

 

_‘ Hey Myc,_

_By the time you read this letter it’s already too late…_

_I’m only kidding, don’t panic; bet I got you there._

_So you’re back from Eton then if your reading this and laughing at my trick – I’m just going to assume you are because that was funny – So I was thinking, you’re finally back home for a while, and that needs to be celebrated so I’m throwing a party in your honour tomorrow at my house (Mum’s taken the kids to see Gran so I’ve got the house to myself). I’ve invited a few people, John, Sherlock, Dimmock, Sally, Anderson and Irene. Anthea invited herself, she misses you almost as much as I do. So we’re doing that and you better be there because I need to see you ASAP, I thought you’d want to get settled first though._

_So I’ll see you tomorrow, there’s no dress code and you don’t need anything except you and your absolutely bloody brilliant self that I’ve missed so much._

_Alright, see you then, ( by the way you’re a bloody bastard for making me ring the door bell and ask your mum to put the letter in place, couldn’t leave the window unlocked could you?)_

_Your doting and incredible boyfriend,_

_-Greg.   ’_

 

Mycroft sat down heavily at his desk and propped his head up in his hands. He couldn’t let Greg see him like this, but he couldn’t just not turn up. He missed Greg more than he cared to admit, more so after reading the letter and imagining him handing it to his mother, even thinking of ways to avoid seeing him felt wrong. Would Greg still think he was so brilliant if he saw how much weight he’d put on? He needed to think of something that wouldn’t upset Greg, and he only had until tomorrow to do it. There had to be something. He didn’t move for several minutes, trying to think of something to do before standing up abruptly. He was fat not useless, at the very least he could unpack while he was thinking. There’d be something to get him out of this without upsetting or disappointing Greg. He just needed to figure out what.


	2. Walking the dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I managed to get this written pretty quickly, sorry for any mistakes - I'm sure there'll be some in there. Truly the kudos and comments are pushing me to work harder on this, so please feel free to leave either, to be honest I'm just glad you're reading it at all :) So without further ado, here's the chapter :)

Dinner at the Holmes house couldn’t have been any more painful for Mycroft. Of course, his mother had made one of his favourite meals to welcome him home, but as it turns out trying to slow your eating down when you were used of practically wolfing down everything that was placed in front was more difficult than Mycroft had remembered. Luckily for him though he had Sherlock to make the odd comment reminding him that one portion of food was enough…or maybe he’d just stop there, stop the smirk from forming on Sherlock’s lips every time Mycroft raised his fork. Of course Sherlock hardly ate but that was no different to usual. He couldn’t help but notice that his parents were trying to subtly keep an eye on how much he was eating as well. He placed his knife and fork down before he was full thanking them for the food and continuing to answer their questions about the term at school.

 

It was always to easy to forget that family could be a pain in the arse too, It was always just easier to remember how you missed them not the way your pesky little brother was constantly trying to bring the conversation to his weight with well timed questions that could have been mistaken genuine interest if you weren’t accustomed to his ways. _“What about clothes shops, do they sell your size clothes?” “How was the food this term?”_ or even _“And the P.E lessons? Are they not mandatory?”_ All would have been perfectly ordinary and acceptable question if not for the look on Sherlock’s face and the smug smirk as he asked, of course Mycroft knew what he was doing, but not answering would only prove how much it was getting to him. Instead he answered curtly refusing to give Sherlock the pleasure of winding him up.

 

Although Mycroft was certain that there was some form of desert in the fridge – no he wasn’t specifically looking for it, it just wasn’t hidden well- neither of his parents mentioned it though, and Mycroft understood the unspoken message. Wouldn’t it just be easier for everyone to have Mycroft back on his diet? his mother would probably take the cake to some tea with her friends, and Mycroft wouldn’t have to have any, because really his diet needed to be restarted with immediate action. Meanwhile Sherlock’s barbs were getting less and less subtle, evidently the boy didn’t have a shred of tact or patience in him, unable to wait even six hours before snapping insults at every chance he got. His parents attempts to thwart his barrage of insults had little effect, and Mycroft was just too tired to reciprocate By the end of the meal Mycroft was beyond embarrassed, hugely irritated and any scrap of self confidence he’d had before sitting down had completely evaporated.

 

As ‘punishment’ for Sherlock’s insults he was forced to do the dishes. The muttering that it elicited from the boy was almost comical but Mycroft didn’t stick around to hear it. If he stayed in the house for any longer his parents were going to take him aside, sit him down and have a long discussion about what exactly had happened to his diet – and though they loved him just as much – when was he going to start the diet again. If they were feeling particularly affectionate, and from the sympathetic looks he was receiving at dinner they were, they’d even talk about his feelings, how he felt about it all, and if there was anything he needed to talk about. Mycroft couldn’t stand such a farce. Instead as soon as his mother looked over to him evidently about to suggest they have a chat in the living room, Mycroft stood up and forced a smile. “Dinner was lovely, thank-you…I’m going to take the dog for a walk, clear my thoughts a little.”

 

 It was the perfect excuse that implied he was going to be getting at least a little exercise that night, so of course how could they refuse? He donned his coat putting his phone and a carefully concealed packed of cigarettes and lighter in his pocket before picking up the dog’s leash and whistling for the beast. He had to admit that as far as canines went Redbeard was an excellent specimen, not only was he a beautiful dog, but he was very well behaved and good at keeping Sherlock company. That wasn’t to say that Mycroft was attached to it, but he’d tolerate it in the house – not his room. A few seconds after whistling Redbeard padded softly into the porch, taking a seat as Mycroft attached the leader, tail thwacking happily against the floor.

 

Mycroft had no intention whatsoever to walk far, so after leaving the house he headed to the cycling track nearby – but still out of view of the house- and sat down on a crumbling wooden bench. He just needed to get out, escape the pitying looks and the barbs before he snapped. Redbeard sat at Mycroft’s feet, tilting his head as if enquiring what was going on. Mycroft considered for a moment as he took out the cigarettes and lit up, before deciding it was safe enough to let him off the leash. The animal looked unsure for a moment before trotting off, probably to find an interesting plant to piss on. Mycroft took long draws on his cigarette, both to calm down from dinner and to prepare for what he was doing next.

 

He had to call Gregory.

 

He didn’t want to. Not at all. Even if he missed his voice and his jokes, he would have to disappoint him and say he couldn’t go to the party. Greg didn’t know about the weight gain, it’d just never been mentioned over the phone. Part of Mycroft had decided that it wasn’t bad enough to comment on, and that part that knew it was had convinced itself that he’d get it under control by the time he came home. Only he hadn’t, and now he had to face it. After one last deep draw on his cigarette, Mycroft dropped it to the floor and crushed it out. His fingers automatically  punched out Greg’s number, calling him from his dorm room night after night had made sure that it was more than just stored in his memory, but his muscle memory too.

 

 Part of him wished that he was still in his dorm, calling for the simple desire to talk to Greg as he lay on his bed and planed out his essays. He brought the phone to his ear waiting only a few moments before the dial tone stopped at a voice rang through. “Myc! So you’re home then? Did you get my letter?” Greg asked immediately. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile, dismissing the use of the nickname that Greg – and only Greg – was permitted to use.

 

“Evening Gregory. I’m home and I received the letter, apologies for not keeping the window open while I was away, I was just thinking of the small matters of thieves and the elements.” He said, warm sarcasm seeping through his words. There was a snuffle followed by a sneeze nearby, so clearly the dog hadn’t wandered too far.

 

“As if, I didn’t even know you had criminals even near your part, I’m pretty sure that they look at all those bloody manor houses and decide they’d have an easier time nicking some poor bugger’s car radio.” Even over the phone Mycroft could hear the smile in Greg’s voice, they way he’d have rolled his eyes and half swivelled around in his desk chair. “So you know about the party then?…I know it’s not very private and all, but Anthea was complaining that she was your friend first and that she had a right to see you at the same time and then Irene overheard and decided it had to be a party, so of course I invited the others too and… yeah.” He sighed, but it was only a little exasperated, Greg hadn’t stopped smiling. “I was thinking that after the others went home you and I can just stay at mine, watch some films, talk…I know you know it already but I missed you.”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “I missed you too. He murmured. “About the party…are you sure there’s nothing I need to bring?” he asked, with a wince. That was the opposite of what he'd rang to say. But even if he had said he couldn’t go to the party Greg would find a way of coming to see him, then it’d need explaining why he didn’t want to go, and…well, hearing Greg so excited about seeing him and having this party…he just couldn’t say no. Somehow even just hearing the other’s voice was enough to make him loose his resolve on the matter. He blamed it on not seeing him for so long.

 

“Good. Nah, we should be good, unless you’re against vodka and beer, then you should probably bring something, If you come over around six or seven that’d be great. I think Irene said something about wine, and Anthea’s bringing rum. I’ve got the food sorted…one night off your diet isn’t going to do anything.” The grin was still ringing loud and clear through his tone, but Mycroft wasn’t smiling. It felt like there was ice running through his veins. Greg needed to know, wouldn’t it be better just to tell him than to turn up and see his reaction? Only that meant he’d have to think of something to say, hopefully one that didn’t make him sound pathetic or weak.

 

“That sounds fine.” Mycroft didn’t usually drink much anyway; he assumed that if necessary he’d find something palatable. “As for the diet…”

 

“Myc it’s one night, I’ll even go for a jog with you if you’re that worried about it.” Greg interrupted, obviously getting the wrong idea of what Mycroft was going to say. Mycroft winced, Greg thought he was doing well, and why wouldn’t he? He’d been doing so bloody well, that's what was making this so difficult. He lit up another cigarette, taking a long draw of it before trying again.

 

“No Gregory I didn’t mean it like that…” there was an expectant silence on the other side of the phone, punctuated only by the background muttering and video-game noises that no doubt was coming from one of his little brothers. Mycroft sighed, just bloody say it, you can’t hide this from him. “…The diet’s been...” This was so much harder to admit than he thought. He hadn’t actually had to admit it to anyone. He wasn’t going to be able to say anything like this, so he did what he always did. Cut everything off. No emotions, not thoughts, no noise. The best way of describing it was as an empty white room in his head, there was nothing there but logic, relevant information and the task at hand, no emotions to cloud his judgement or make this difficult.  “…It hasn’t been going well recently. I believed it was best that you know in advance, and I’d prefer that you don’t draw any more attention to it or make it more obvious than it already is.”

 

The tone of his voice changed to, it was sharp, concise and emotionless, perfectly to the point and completely void of any nervousness. It was exactly the tone he needed to convey such a point to Greg. He heard shuffling at the other end of the line, Greg standing from his chair and flopping back onto his bed. “Myc…it’s okay you know, everyone goes through a rough patch, I won’t say anything alright? Do you want to talk about it or…?” there it was again, that pity, could they not see that he didn’t want it? That it only made things worse?

 

“Thank-you, and no, I’d rather not talk about it at this moment in time.” He answered simply. He was sat perfectly still, the only movement was to raise the cigarette to his lips. Greg on the other hand was still shuffling around. “Apologies Gregory but I have to go, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn't wait to hear Greg’s goodbye before he hung up. He still didn’t move for a few long minutes. Outside of that white room in his head everything was so loud, it took a while to readjust. He stood with a quiet sigh, tugging his shirt back into place. Like his latest set of uniform none of the clothes he’d bought at Eton fit properly anymore, and he knew for a fact that searching his draws and wardrobe for something better fitting was completely pointless. At least he had until the next evening to by some new ones, although he was dreading finding out which sizes fit.

 

He took one lat draw of the cigarette before snuffing it out. It had gotten dark enough that the dog was no longer visible, and there was no way that Mycroft was going to start shouting it’s name. Instead he put his finger and thumb in his mouth and whistled, the shrill noise piercing through the quiet. It was twelve seconds before the dog was in earshot again; the sound of paws racing towards him and the soft panting ensuring that Mycroft knew he was there. He re-attached the leader, much to the dog’s apparent disgust, and started walking back towards the house. Some people may have taken the opportunity to have a heart to heart with such an animal, but not Mycroft. He walked in silence, keeping his thoughts to himself and letting the dog trot along beside him undisturbed.

 

What would talking to the dog do anyway? Although his problems felt heavy on his shoulders, talking to the dog wouldn’t actually make him lose weight, nor would it make his clothes any better fitting. It would simply provide emotional comfort, and Mycroft was trying to distance himself from his emotions considering that was where the main problem lay. Caring was not an advantage, he learned that from a very young age, but despite that it was impossible not to. He cared about his parents, and Sherlock, and Greg and the very few friends he had. He cared about what they thought of him, and even though it was ‘just a number’ and ‘didn’t define him’ he cared about his weight too.

 

It was all of this caring that made him turn to food. He knew it was. He was lonely, or stressed or tired or angry, and it gave him something else to focus on. There were alternatives, he could play the piano, but that would mean leaving the room, he could read, but he’d proven on multiple occasions that he could read and snack at the same time. Mycroft had to find a better way of distracting himself, or he had to stop caring. It was the only way to truly stop this infuriating dance with the scales. He stopped for a moment outside the house, he knew he’d smell of smoke, but he could just say he’d walked past a bonfire. His parents would believe him, Mycroft wasn’t stupid enough to smoke. If only they knew.

 

He tried to unlock the door quietly, slipping inside and transferring his phone and cigarettes from his coat pockets into his trouser pockets. He toed off his shoes and hung the coat, freeing the dog from the leash…who immediately raced out of the porch and into the living room barking his return to whoever was in there. Mycroft winced and stared heading towards the stairs hoping that they wouldn’t want him. He’d only taken a few steps before a voice stopped him. “Mycie? Can we have a word?” his mother called, they hadn’t heard him climb the stairs, so they knew he was in earshot. He considered trying to climb the stairs quietly, but they echoed and it was hard enough even for Sherlock to climb them silently, added weight didn’t do much for being subtle or inconspicuous.

 

With a quiet sigh Mycroft headed over to the living room, leaning against the doorway instead of stepping inside. Both his parents were there, sitting together on the sofa. He didn’t say anything, just scanned the room. The cream carpet had been cleaned recently, the walls were the same warm red as always. The Christmas tree hadn’t been put up yet, nor had any other decorations, although he assumed they were going to be put up soon considering that the coffee table had been shifted out of the way and was now closer to the sofa. “Mycroft.” He corrected tiredly, it had the same number of syllables for God’s sake.

 

“Mycroft darling, sit down, your father and I want to talk to you.” She said softly, carefully, as if speaking too loud would scare him off. Mycroft didn’t move from the doorway, just crossed his arms over himself, squashing the urge to tug at his clothes again, knowing it wouldn’t do anything but draw attention to it. He didn’t like the way the were watching him, it was like they were waiting for him to crack, to spill his secrets to them and explain exactly what it was that had stopped him from sticking to his diet.

 

Well he wasn’t going to do it. Not then.

                       

With a quick scan over them Mycroft confirmed what they wanted to talk about, the fact that they’d been discussing the best approach while he was out, and the fact that he was going to hate every moment of the conversation. Again he slipped back into the white room in his head to tackle this, wondering if there was any point at all in exiting it. “I understand this is a discussion you believe needs to take place, and I _will_ make sure that I take part in it, if only for your reassurance that I am - in fact - aware of my weight and what needs to be done about it. However as I’m sure you understand I’m exhausted, it’s been a long day and I rather need some time to myself.” He said, allowing some tiredness into his voice and running a hand through his hair.

 

Perhaps it was unusual for a seventeen year old to speak to his parents as if he was in a business meeting, but it was a habit from talking to his professors, and really quite a common occurrence for him anyway. His parents exchanged looks. After been married for such a long time they could hold entire conversations with just a glance. It was one of the things that Mycroft was proud of his parents for. Despite having two – admittedly very difficult – children to raise and all the trials of modern life they managed to stay very much together and very much in love. It’d make anyone that knew them well enough wonder where Mycroft got the idea that caring was such a bad idea.

It took a little while but finally his father looked over at Mycroft and nodded, “Alright, but we’re going to talk about it, your mothers booked you an appointment at the tailors for Monday morning so make sure you remember to go. Go get some sleep.” He told him. Mycroft turned to leave the room glad that he’d avoided it this time. He was in no mood to even think about his feelings much less share them with his parents. And the tailor…well, even thinking about going made him feel sick. The Holmes men went to the same tailor since Mycroft had his first suit. He’d witnessed first had the ups and downs of Mycroft’s weight, having fitted more suits on him than on any other in the family. He’d know exactly how much bigger Mycroft was, to the millimeter.

 

 It didn’t help that he had no regard for what Mycroft would consider embarrassing. His comments were appreciated when he was thinner than usual; he had a feeling they were going to be awful tomorrow. He made sure his mask was tightly in place and simply nodded, refusing to show his dread.  The only good thing about it was that Sherlock was busy doing something in his room so he couldn’t deduce Mycroft. No doubt if he could he’d make sure that everyone was aware just how little Mycroft wanted to measured, and then he’d probably highlight how desperately he needed new cloths, ensuring that his mother would drag him out to go shopping. With Sherlock upstairs though that could be avoided. He had three days to shift some of the weight for the tailors. Not nearly enough.

 

“Oh and Mycroft…we’re glad that you’re home.” His mother added. Mycroft half turned and forced a smile – although he knew for a fact that it didn’t look forced. His parents were lovely people, and he knew that perfectly well. They did what was best for their children, and if loosing weight and talking about it was what they thought was best then they were going to do everything to help. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock would be the people they were without their parents support, they never batted an eye at the things they did, only scolding them if they did something potentially dangerous, rude, or disruptive. Unsurprisingly Sherlock had many discussions about safety and behaviour.

 

“I’m glad to be home too. Goodnight Mummy, Father.” He said before leaving the room swiftly and heading up the stairs. His shortness of breath after ascending the stairs was a painful reminder of his added mass, one that he promptly pushed to the back of his mind. Mycroft entered his room, making sure Sherlock hadn’t been there before locking the door, drawing the blinds and changing into his pyjamas. Having anyone walk in or see him get changed would be beyond mortifying, and Sherlock would never let him live it down. He noted with mild irritation that even his pyjamas were too snug on him, and added that to the list of things that he needed to buy. Perhaps he’d just buy one or two outfits tomorrow and then get the suit on Monday. He'd buy the rest later.

 

For now he’d put up with the tight pyjamas, throwing on a once oversized dressing gown to cover himself as he sat at his desk. He’d get some work done and then go to bed. Mycroft just needed to be alone, in the comfort of his meticulously organised room with his laptop. He didn’t remember how it had occurred, but once he’d finished an essay he found himself watching a documentary and nibbling on some biscuits from the stash in his draw. Perhaps not a good thing to be doing with his current situation, but then he was stressed and tired and perhaps a little distressed by it, not that he’d admit that. It wasn’t like a few biscuits could make things worse anyway. Tomorrow was going to be hell. But there was no avoiding it. The only good part was that he’d get to see Greg, perhaps if he focused on that it wouldn’t be quite so bad.

                        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was it guys, poor Mycroft wasn't having a good day was he? Tomorrow's sounding like it's going to be even worse for him, at least the dog had a bit of an adventure though :) Feel free to tell me what you thought, Good, bad, meh, I'd love to know your thoughts or any ideas you have. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next's hopefully going to be up soon.


	3. To the shops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, here's the next chapter! Sorry this took so long, it's just been a bit hectic. Hopefully I'll get the next one up sooner :) Once again I apologise for any mistakes that you might spot, feel free to let me know if you do see any, and leave a comment if you fancy it.

The next morning rolled around quickly. Far too quickly in Mycroft’s mind. Usual mornings at home would have found him in the living room, with the newspapers, a cup of tea and some form of pastry for breakfast, where he’d generally remain for a further two cups of tea and another pastry. This was because despite being up early, he was not a morning person. The sheer quantity of tea that was required to wake him up was staggering, most days you wouldn’t get more than a glare from him until he’d had at least two cups. That morning however, Mycroft didn’t linger at home for long. He was up and out of the house before anyone else in the house woke up. Even Sherlock.

 

There were many reasons for this, he needed to be up early because he had a lot to be getting on with, his body was still following the circadian rhythm it had fallen into being up early at Eton…and he needed to avoid his parents for as long as possible. The last thing he wanted was to be cornered by them as he tried to wake up and forced to talk about his weight. It would only be a bad start to an already ominous day. It was because of these factors that Mycroft had showered quickly – looking away from the mirror as he passed – and changed into some only slightly too snug clothes. Of course he did sit and read a few articles as he drank his tea, but he forfeited the pastries for an apple. He knew it wouldn’t change anything in time to see Greg or the tailor, but his diet needed to be rebooted anyway. He might as well start now.

 

With breakfast done and dusted he located a pen and some paper, leaving a note in his perfect handwriting that explained his whereabouts to his parents. He may not want to see them, but he didn’t want to worry them either. Something he wished Sherlock would share. With the note on the table and his mug in the dishwasher Mycroft picked up his things and set off.

 

The air outside was cool and crisp, autumn retreating fast as winter marched in. It was refreshingly cold, the air flooding his lungs and waking him up even more, far too perfect and clean to ruin with cigarette smoke, so the pack remained untouched in his pocket. Had it not been for the undeniable coil of worry for the party later on it would have been the perfect day. Mycroft just stood for a moment, appreciating the rare piece of quiet and calm that had fallen over the grounds. At least he did until his fingers started to burn with the chill.

 

He pulled the car keys from his pocket and headed over to the garage. He’d only passed his text a few months ago – immediately after turning seventeen actually – and hadn’t yet bought his own car. The one his parents had let him learn to drive in was just a small, old Toyota with far too many miles than was good for it. But she still ran, and though Mycroft would have preferred something a little more comfortable the insurance wasn’t as terribly expensive as it could have been. Walking into the city would have been a healthier option, both for the environment and his waistline, but Mycroft didn’t see how it could make too much difference. Besides, it was too cold to walk.

 

He took a seat in the car, fastening his seatbelt before starting up and easing out of the garage. Driving came easily to him, each of the motions and thought processes coming automatically as he made his way into the city. Clothes were his main priority, he needed something to wear at the party. That in itself posed a problem. Mycroft had never been good at selecting clothes to wear to parties and informal events even when he was thin, adding the criteria of hiding as much of his new weight as possible just made things all the more difficult. Still, it had to be done, otherwise he’d be forced to see Greg again in clothes that were too small on him, and that was something he just couldn’t tolerate.

 

One bonus of being up earlier than most was that the shops were quiet, less people to see him wandering around and trying to think of what the best thing to wear was, not to mention pluck up the courage to find out what size he was now. Every now and then a sales assistant would approach him, only to turn in the other direction when Mycroft gave them a look that clearly showed he didn’t need or want their help and should really be left alone. He knew that they were just doing their jobs and trying to be of some assistance, but then he was irritated and stressed, and a little hungry after only having that apple. It was yet another thing that wasn’t giving him much hope for the diet. Apples were meant to be appetite suppressants as they contain pectin, but clearly it wasn’t doing much good for Mycroft. He just tried to ignore it, searching the shop for something that would be casual but covering and that he wouldn’t mind wearing.

 

Unsurprisingly the first few shops proved fruitless, but he didn’t expect any less. It was only at the fifth shop that he constructed an idea of what might be acceptable to wear, and the seventh when he’d finally had enough. He utterly refused to visit any other shops and simply decided to buy what he needed from there. It was once again easier to push emotions out of the way, although this time he just shoved them to the side instead of blocking them off completely. With his newfound determination Mycroft located a rack of plain black slacks that – in his mind – were much more acceptable than jeans, some white shirts and a few jumpers.

 

Selecting the right size was something he wanted to do first time. He loathed changing rooms. Far too many memories of trying clothes on that should fit and knowing before you’d even stepped in that they wouldn’t. The defeat of moving up a size. In that small room, with only a drawn curtain to shelter you and stop intruders, you were forced to confront your reflection. See yourself struggle to pull the clothes on. All of that, only to take them all of again and return them to their racks, proving to anyone that cared to notice that you’d put on enough weight to make going up a clothes size. That was more than a couple of pounds. Getting the right size first time would make things a little easier.

 

Despite that actually finding out which size he was now was also something he wanted to avoid. So he forced himself not to read the sizes, crating a mental blur over them as he selected ones that looked about the right size and took them to the changing rooms. He tried the clothes on with his back to the mirror, not ready to face his reflection quite yet. Surprisingly enough most of the clothes he’d selected fit, the jumpers were even slightly too big, he preferred focusing on that rather than the fact that the shirts were too small. All in all it wasn’t bad. They weren’t clothes he’d usually wear, but they were close enough, and although it was impossible to hide the extent of his gain at least they didn’t make it too obvious. He managed to avoid the mirror too, which in his current position was a good thing.

 

Mycroft swapped out the shirts for the next size up, leaving the jumpers a little too big and paid at the till, glad that this mortifying, exhausting trip was finally coming to an end. Of course that just meant he was closer to going home, closer to seeing Greg’s reaction. There were two sides to every coin. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the price – overly expensive for clothes he wasn’t planning on wearing for long – just paid and went on his way. And in this case his way was directly towards the food court.

 

_Wonderful._

 

He tried his best to ignore the smells, but it _was_ nearly lunchtime and all he’d had were a few cups of tea and an apple. It was hardly his fault that he found himself sitting at a table in a small café, waiting for his pot of tea and slice of lemon cake to be served. He knew he had to stop doing this, but it had looked heavenly. It looked even better when it was placed in front of him along with the pot of freshly brewed Assam. He was in for a stressful and admittedly worry inducing night, surely he deserved to enjoy a relaxing twenty minutes.

 

And enjoy he did. The cake – although he’d had better – was still delicious, perfectly fluffy but still heavy enough to make it satisfying. The lemon curd was tarty, perfectly offset by the sweetness of the icing. It was good enough to distract him from the small stab of guilt each time he had a forkful. In his mind it was well deserved, he hadn’t snapped at any of the shopkeepers, and he’d achieved what he’d set out to do. Shopping was a painful and tedious experience, forcing himself to go through it all surely deserved some kind of treat afterwards. It was too late now anyway, he’d already bought it and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

 

The café itself was also quite nice, very peaceful with comfortable chairs, and a friendly older woman behind the counter, who had only smiled when he’d ordered, not giving Mycroft a look that questioned if he needed cake. It had that charm of a small café, odd tablecloths, and chalkboards detailing what they had to sell.  The quiet was certainly the best thing about it though, allowing Mycroft just to think in peace. It wasn’t even about anything in particular, just running over anything that came to mind, sorting the stray bits of data. It was soothing. But he knew it couldn’t last forever. Too soon he had finished the last bite of cake and had drained the tea. Standing from the table he straightened his shirt – glad that that he’d bought new, better fitting ones – nodded to the woman behind the counter and headed out of the café.

 

The majority of the afternoon was spent in the library doing some more work. He could easily do it at home, but he’d be required to sit through the conversation with his parents. So he settled for the library, ignoring the irony of the librarians loudly shushing near silent members of the public. As always the work was far too easy for him, requiring little more than finding the correct information in his mind and typing it up. Simple. He took his time, typing out page after page until the point that if he didn’t go home and get ready for the party immediately he was going to be late. Absolutely no time to be held by his parents and forced to discus each mortifying element of his weight.

 

Mycroft drove home, glad for the light traffic, and pulled the car back into the garage before taking his new clothes and heading into the house. Redbeard was sat at the door waiting, having heard the car pull in. Smart dog. He gave Mycroft a sniff before trotting off to find something interesting to do. Mycroft closed the door quietly, if possible he wanted to avoid his parents anyway, even though there really wasn’t enough time to talk about it now.

 

Unlike yesterday he managed to make it half way up the stairs before he stepped on one of the steps that he could have sworn wasn’t a bad step last time he was home. Or maybe you just needed to be a certain weight to set it off. He decided to risk it and keep going, however his mother stepped out of the study and gave him a look clearly irritated at Mycroft’s absence all day. “Mycroft, avoid us all you want but we’re going to talk to you about it.” She said sternly, a voice she reserved for when someone was being troublesome. Mycroft suppressed a sigh and stopped ascending the stairs, turning to look at her.

 

“I wasn’t avoiding you Mummy, I just needed a text book that was in the library to do my work.” He lied smoothly. He didn’t feel guilty about lying to her. Surely it was better to tell a white lie than to admit he was avoiding them. “And I’m aware we’re going to talk about it.” He muttered, making it clear to anyone who could read the slight shift in his tone that he wasn’t happy about it. Of course, having raised him and seen the subtle signs that Mycroft used to display his feelings his mother picked up on them and her face softened considerably.

 

“Oh Myc, you know we don’t want to upset you or make you uncomfortable, it’s just that we _do_ need to talk about it.” She said, the stern tone replaced with one of concern. “Your father and I just want to make sure that you okay, and that we’re doing all we can to help you.” Mycroft nodded, she was being honest too. Had it been about anything else he may have started to feel a little guilty about avoiding them, but then it was different, his weight was the exception and avoiding talking about it was just something he couldn’t be guilty for.

 

“I understand…Gregory is having a party tonight, I believe I’ll be staying out.” He informed her, realising that maybe he should have told her about that earlier. It was just so different to have to explain your whereabouts to people when no one at Eton cared enough to ask or want to know. Without even realising it simply by caring so much his parents had capped his freedom. Yet another reason that caring wasn’t an advantage. “Sherlock, however, will be home before twelve” he assured her.

 

His mother sighed, but it wasn’t angry, more mildly exasperated. “All right then, just be careful alright? And look after your brother” she asked. Mycroft nodded, mumbling something along the lines of ‘not to worry’ before heading upstairs. He’d give Sherlock a lift to the party, and arrange a taxi back for him. His mother certainly wasn’t an idiot, she probably knew that there would be some drinking involved, but she trusted Mycroft not to over do it and keep an eye on Sherlock. He _would_ be making sure that Sherlock wasn’t being stupid, and when it came to alcohol Mycroft wasn’t a big drinker. He didn’t like what it did to his head, it made him stupid, or at the very least put him back to average levels, which in his mind were the same thing.

 

Once again he found himself in the safety of his room to change into his new clothes. It wasn’t like he had many options on what to wear. But it still took a good five minutes to select the right combination. He chose the grey jumper, the white shirt and the black slacks. Not so bad. They were certainly more comfortable, less constricting, he could breathe freely. The jumper was slightly too big, not big enough to be baggy or look like he’d bought the next size up to look slimmer, just big enough that it made him feel like it was a little less obvious how big he’d gotten.

 

Of course, he hadn’t actually seen how the clothes looked on, he just knew how they felt. That wouldn’t have usually been a problem, but tonight it was. If he just stepped out of his room without knowing Sherlock might say something, and then he wouldn’t actually know for sure if he was being serious, or even worse he could just turn up to Greg’s looking even worse than he had to. Either way he had to know, so he had to look in the mirror. It felt like biting a bullet. Mycroft checked that the door was still locked as he made his way past to the wardrobe. Where the only full-length mirror in his room was.

 

Opening the wardrobe itself wasn’t nice either, it was filled with clothes that proved just how bad he’d let this get. Mycroft supposed it was his fault. His fault for being lured into a false sense of security after doing so well, it had been a beyond stupid move to throw out all the clothes he had for situations like this. It had been even more stupid to let it get this bad. But there was nothing that could be done about it now. And so after a moment of steeling himself, he turned and faced the mirror.

 

Now, Mycroft had never been someone that enjoyed his reflection. He was too pale, his hair too red, his freckles made him look like a child. It had improved a little when he could scratch ‘chubby’ off that list. This time wasn’t good. He stopped himself from turning away and looked at himself properly. His auburn hair wasn’t any better than usual, the soft curls didn’t help anything. While curly hair suited Sherlock’s dark hair and his bone structure, Mycroft didn’t think that it was a good look on him. His eyes were the same watery grey as always, managing to be both cuttingly sharp, but withdrawn too, as if lost in thought.

 

As usual his skin was pale, almost ghostly, but thankfully clear and unblemished, the only break being the splattering of freckles across his nose and on his cheeks. They made him look three years younger than he was. It was no surprise that his cheeks seemed fuller than usual, or that his jaw line was less sharp. His bone structure was different to Sherlock’s anyway, his cheekbones had never been that pronounced, but now you couldn’t see them at all. The only good thing was that he hadn’t developed a double chin, although admittedly his jaw line was softer than it should have been.

 

As for the clothes themselves they were all right. The slacks were the right length and didn’t cut into him, as for the jumper it was actually a fairly good choice on his part. It didn’t clash with his hair or make him look washed out, and it did a good job of highlighting his eyes. He was still unmistakably bigger, but because it didn’t cling it lessened the effect. After that evaluation of himself and his clothes Mycroft proceeded to brush his teeth and comb his hair into place, flattening it as much as possible. Once that was done he really had nothing else to do but make sure Sherlock was ready and leave. He picked up his phone and car keys, adding his wallet just in case as he unlocked his door.

 

The Holmes house – or manor really – was unmistakably beautiful. It was old and traditional, right from the ornate staircase to the large library filled to the brim with books. It was truly a lovely house, and he was very privileged to live there. Had there been such a thing as ghosts no doubt the house would be filled with them, but as it was it was simply memories that filled the space. The small dent in the floorboard where Sherlock had dropped one of the ornamental irons, the singe in the curtain where Mycroft had left a magnifying glass positioned at the incorrect angle, the scratch in the wall from when the dog was chasing a fly…each memory was perfectly categorised in his mind. Small things that were barely noticeable unless you knew where to look. Memories were better than ghosts anyway.

 

Mycroft headed along the hallway to Sherlock’s room and knocked twice. There was no response, but his brother was clearly in there. “Sherlock are you ready?” he called. From inside the room he heard the clink of a beaker being set on the desk and the slight fizz of whichever chemicals he’d smuggled in there. After a moment there was a muffled ‘yes’, which only succeeded in making Mycroft roll his eyes. Lies. “Well, I’d advise that you set your experiment aside and be ready in fifteen minutes or you’ll have to make your own way.” He called in response before turning and heading back down the stairs, not waiting for a response.

 

This time however his mother didn’t come out of the study, and his father was at work leaving Mycroft to do what he will with the fifteen minutes he’d promised Sherlock. There was truly only one option. It was with no great reluctance that Mycroft switched the kettle on and set about making his cup of tea. For each person on the planted there was a point where they could take no more tea, the saturation point, but for Mycroft that point was still a long way of. He’d only ever drank too much tea once in his life time, and it wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat, but he had time and a hot cup of tea would do wonders for his mood.

 

With his freshly made tea in hand Mycroft took a seat at the table and took his phone from his pocket, searching through the latest news as he enjoyed the quiet. Redbeard glanced in the kitchen, probably wondering who it was in there before quietly huffing at plodding off. That was understandable, while Mycroft didn’t despise the creature he would pet it or give it treats, the dog was smart enough to hang around people that would…namely the rest of the family. Even his father would slip the dog some meat from his plate if the sad wet eyes appeared by his leg. Mycroft’s timing was as precise as usual, just as he was draining the final dregs from his cup the telltale sound of the third from bottom step creaking gave way Sherlock’s otherwise silent descent.

 

Mycroft didn’t move from the table, just listening to his mother exit her study once again, and stop Sherlock for a word. It wasn’t eavesdropping so long as he didn’t put any more effort into listening in than usual. It was for that reason he only caught snippets of the conversation, it was just the general things. ‘Listen to your brother’ ‘try not to be rude’ both statements were returned with a sigh and the mumblings of begrudging agreement. The part that caught his interest though, was what his mother added onto the end of her customary rules speech, just after the ‘have fun’ as Sherlock was turning to head into the kitchen their mother stopped him. ‘Keep an eye on your brother for me, make sure he’s alright.’ She added.

 

Was there any need for that? He wasn’t a lost puppy or a child with grazed knees. Despite what his waistline said he was capable of looking after himself. It was understandable that mothers worried for their child, a behaviour seen in most species of mammals, after all it was the instincts of parents to protect their young and further ensure the survival of their species. But surely she didn’t think that he required someone to look out for him, much less his younger brother.

 

Not that he said as much, despite his take on the meaning of eavesdropping he assumed that mummy would be less than pleased at the intrusion. Instead he just sat thinking it through, only glancing up momentarily when Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. “Please tell me, brother mine, that you at least opened your window before reacting the aluminium and iodine.” He sighed turning his attention back to his phone. In his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock’s hand twitch in annoyance, only fair considering his behaviour last night and the retort he was no doubt preparing.

 

“And tell me, Mycroft, how many sizes up are those new clothes?” he asked, Mycroft didn’t even need to look up to see the smirk on the boys face. “No wait, I bet you blocked that out didn’t you…too painful to see what an utter fa…” Mycroft stood up abruptly at that giving Sherlock a glare and effectively cutting whichever adjectives he was planning to use. The teen still looked triumphant, clearly pleased in having riled Mycroft up so easily.

 

Mycroft though, didn’t think it was funny in the slightest. Had Sherlock any semblance of tact or compassion in him he would have seen that it was certainly not the topic to be taunting Mycroft with. Truly it was times like these that Mycroft actually took into consideration Sherlock’s claims of sociopathy, only better observation and evolution of his brother’s behaviours kept him from agreeing. “I didn’t mean it like that Sherlock. It was an enquiry not an insult. Get in the car. I’ll prevent the aluminium iodide from causing any damage.” He said flatly, pashing Sherlock the car keys as he passed and headed up the stairs to make sure it was properly ventilated. It was unlikely he would have produced a large amount of the gas, but it was best to be safe.

 

It gave him time to cool off a little too. It wasn’t like him to loose his temper, even if that was just glaring at Sherlock and snapping at him, in all fairness though, he was nearing the end of his tether. He didn’t spend long upstairs before heading out to the car, calling a goodbye to his mother as he left. Sherlock was already in the car, so Mycroft climbed in immediately. He knew the way to Greg’s house without having to think about it. Sherlock at least had figured out that it was best to remain silent in case he irritated Mycroft too much, but that meant the car was silent as he drove. Mycroft broke first, sighing softly.

 

“If you insist on continuing your smoking habit, at the very least get the aluminium powder from under your nails before you light up.” he warned him, deciding he’d tackle the actually smoking issue at another time. Sherlock glanced at his nails and nodded, and began getting rid of the aluminium powder, not looking over at Sherlock. The problem between them was that they were too similar, they didn’t often have friendly conversation, but both of them did care for the other – insults and arguing aside. In the car it seemed to have settled slightly, Sherlock looked only slightly less guarded than usual. Perhaps it was the privacy and social safety in the car. Mycroft understand how his brain worked, and he was no better at socialisation.

 

“Mummy said I had to keep an eye on you…make sure you were okay.” He informed him, not even waiting two seconds before adding, “You overheard that though.” Mycroft just nodded, mentally cataloguing what it was that had lead Sherlock to that conclusion, he saw no need for a verbal response. “Why did she tell me to do that?” he asked. It wasn’t taunting or confused, simply asking for clarification. Sherlock was aware that Mycroft was capable of looking after himself and that he was okay, or at the very least he could appear okay. The question was what had mummy seen that he hadn’t?

 

“Mummy’s better able to make emotional connections than we are, we both require some sign of emotion and a cause in order to deduce, whereas she can take an event or a situation and make a link as to how the person in question is feeling, even if they don’t provide any evidence at all for it.” He pointed out. “It’s not the most reliable of methods, however she’s had years of experience…It’s the same way she knows when there’s a problem at school even before I or the school itself ring to inform her.” he contextualised. Sherlock just hummed and turned to look out the window, clearly working something through his head. Mycroft didn’t ask. He wasn’t entirely certain if he wanted to know anyway.

 

It didn’t take long for them to reach Greg’s house. A small but comfortable house that wasn’t quite big enough to contain the force and energy that was his younger siblings. The sky was already fairy dark, the curtains drawn in the house but the light shining behind them made it obvious that Greg was home. Irene’s car was in the drive, and no doubt she had given Sally and Anderson a lift in with her, John would have cycled and parked his bike around the back and Dimmock only lived down the street so he’d be there too. Even though they weren’t late he and Sherlock were going to be the penultimate arrivals, only Anthea yet to make an appearance. Sherlock wasted no time getting out the car and over to Greg’s house, not even knocking before entering.

 

Mycroft however sat in the car for a bit, steeling himself for their reactions. Petty though it may be it really was quite a difference, and he wasn’t sure how he could take Greg’s reaction if it wasn’t good. He wasn’t backing out now though, he missed Greg too much for that. He sighed to himself before climbing out of the car and straightening his jumper, walking with his usual grace towards the open door of Greg’s house, not stopping when a familiar figure appeared in the doorway or even when that figure stepped outside and started jogging towards him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! We'll get to see Greg and the others' reaction next chapter, so stay tuned for that :) As I said, any comments would be greatly appreciated, and thank-you for reading!


	4. The arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, here you go! I've decided to split the party into two, and even then this chapter's pretty long! Thank-you all so much for the comments and kudo's, it really does mean a lot to me knowing that you like it. As always sorry for any mistakes please do let me know if you spot one :)  
>  I've started a blog on Tumblr as a companion to this fic, I'll put more on that at the end.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, I certainly enjoyed writing it and let me know what you thought!

There were strong arms around him almost immediately, pulling him close and holding him. Standing like this, warmed against the bitterly cold air by a soft embrace…well, it made Mycroft wonder why he’d been so worried about seeing Greg again. Mycroft’s arms moved around Greg too, ducking his head slightly and resting it on the slightly shorter teen’s shoulders, head nestled in the crook of his neck. He was warm, smiling; he knew that Greg was too. It was exactly what he needed, no words, no looks or pitying eyes, just a hug. Admittedly a rare thing for Mycroft to need, but he wasn’t questioning it this time.

 

“I missed you.” Greg whispered, not moving away from Mycroft just yet, clearly he too didn’t want to have to step away. That was perfect for Mycroft. To know that Greg hadn’t moved on while he’d been away, to hear the honesty in his voice. Perfect.

 

“I missed you too.” He said just as softly. No other words were exchanged for a long moment, both too happy, too comfortable to say anything else. They just stood there, waiting until they were both too cold to last any longer out there. Mycroft may have been wearing a jumper but it wasn’t warm enough to keep out the chill. Greg sight softly stepping back from Mycroft with that unfairly beautiful grin on his face. He made a point of not looking at the rest of Mycroft eyes just searching his face. It was a sweet gesture, but one that Mycroft could see though easily. Mycroft retuned the favour, scanning over Greg carefully, picking up on everything he could from the amount of time the other had spend deciding what to wear and the number of extra training sessions he’d been to for rugby…he didn’t want to miss a single point.

 

Greg was well used to Mycroft’s deductions by now, so he didn’t ask what he was looking at, didn’t even blink at the way his eyes were flicking from point to point. When Mycroft had finished scanning over him Greg moved closer again, arms finding their way around Mycroft’s neck, lips mere centimetres away.  “I’m glad you’re home.” He said. Mycroft didn’t respond, just moved his lips to Greg’s, hands on the other teens waist as he pulled him closer. Greg was all too happy to return the kiss. Lips moving softly against Mycroft’s. It was soft, tender, and they were both smiling.

 

At least until someone wolf whistled from the door.

 

“Oi, having fun you two? Careful or you’ll give the neighbours a heart attack.” Greg pulled back, giving Mycroft an apologetic look as he turned around.

 

“Piss of Dimmock, If you’re so eager to watch people kiss then go sit by Sally and Phillip.” He called, it was mostly joking, but then he sounded a bit peeved about being interrupted. Mycroft was too, but he didn’t voice as much, more than happy to let Greg handle that one. He didn’t really have any problems with Dimmock, he was on of the more popular boys in school, didn’t get terrible grades, was secondly only to Greg in sports. He was much more abrasive though, making jokes when he shouldn’t, commenting on things that could be offensive. He just didn’t think about other people much. Not someone Mycroft would choose to spend time with, but he was one of Greg’s best friends so he begrudgingly put up with him.

 

Dimmock just grinned from the doorway and slipped back inside, presumably to have another beer. Mycroft sighed softly, slipping his hand into Greg’s and entwining their fingers. “We should go inside, I don’t want to make you a bad host.” He murmured. Greg nodded, his own sigh echoing Mycroft’s.

 

“And I’d be a bad host if I stayed outside to just kiss you some more?” he asked, signature smirk in place. As always Greg looked perfect, mousy brown hair cut just long enough to run your fingers through, skin that was always tanned – courtesy of playing outdoor sports – the sports also gave him an envious physique. Anyone could see that he was fit, perfectly toned and strong. A fact the Greg liked to flaunt by training shirtless, the merciless flirt that he was. Today he was wearing his ACDC shirt with ripped black jeans, combat boots and a leather jacket. The look was perfect for him and he knew it. Standing next to him was both wonderful and shameful. They were just so different, opposite ends of the spectrum once again.

 

“Not from my perspective, however you’d most certainly be a cold host.” Mycroft said, a small smile tugging at his lips. Greg sighed again, smirk lifting into a grin that made his cheeks dimple adorably.

 

“Fine, let’s go inside then.” He conceded, leading Mycroft into the house and closing the door behind him. Mycroft took the opportunity to reacquaint himself with the house. Even with the group of teenagers there it was still unusually quiet for Greg’s house. Pictures of family lined the cream walls, school pictures, family pictures and paintings by the little ones. It was wonderfully cosy. You could look anywhere in the house and find something with sentimental value to them. Admittedly it might have helped that the house was small. Greg shared a room with two of his younger brothers, and his sisters all shared a room as well. A point that often sparked debates and arguments between them – although perhaps not as dramatic as the feuds he and Sherlock had.

 

Mycroft didn’t fail to notice that as he was surveying the house Greg was surveying him. He knew that he would, humans were curious, one of their saving graces. He made sure not to look at Greg, giving him due time to look. He also made sure not to change his breathing pattern or to change his posture, that would give it away more than his slightly imperfect posture already was. It felt better to at least attempt to appear smaller even if it was just a slight deviation from him usual perfectly graceful posture. Mycroft’s heart was still beating rapidly. Greg wouldn’t say anything, but Mycroft might read it, he might be disgusted, even relieved that he was only going to be there for a month. That was what was daunting.

 

Greg looked away after a moment; hold tightening on Mycroft’s hand without even realising that he had. Not disgust then, or at least not yet. “C’mon Myc, I can’t keep you all to myself.” He said wistfully, a smile on his lips but Mycroft could hear that his mood had gone down, that’d he’d started to register that Mycroft hadn’t been lying about his weight when he called. Even Greg pitied him. He couldn’t change that though. Mycroft allowed Greg to call him Myc, he was the only one that was allowed to do so, it was a compromise in return of calling him Gregory. Mycroft followed Greg through the hall, noting that they’d re-painted it a few weeks ago. As they neared the kitchen though the topic Sherlock and John were discussing became painfully obvious.

 

_“Really Sherlock? Stop being dramatic it can’t be that bad, I know he probably won’t have kept it all off but I can’t believe that.”_ Even Greg froze beside him at John’s muffled words. It technically wasn’t eavesdropping, they should have known that Mycroft was in ear shot.

 

_“Trust me John, it is. He’s back to what he was before, bigger even. I doubt he moved a muscle except to lift his fork to his mouth the entire time he was away.”_ Sherlock’s scoff was just as pleased as aver, obviously glad to have some gossip to share with John. Mycroft gritted his teeth, forcing the blush on his cheeks to retreat. Greg had gone very silent beside him, staring at his feet and absolutely not looking at Mycroft. He didn’t expect anything else. Greg had not problem telling Sherlock off for things, but they weren’t supposed to be listening to that conversation in the first place.

 

Mycroft sighed and stepped forwards, deciding to get this over with, stepping into the doorway with his hand still entwined with Greg’s. _“Jesus. Poor sod.”_ John said, having the misfortune of speaking just as Mycroft caught his eye. It was all the teen could do not to let his jaw drop, clearly he still hadn’t believed Sherlock. “Holy shit.” He said, a blush forming on the shorter teen’s cheeks as soon as he had spoken, he had the courtesy to look ashamed and down at his feet, “Sorry Mycroft I...uh…I didn’t mean it like that, I just didn’t expect to see you there.” He said with a wince.

 

“Yes, thank-you for that John, I’m flattered…As for you Sherlock, please refrain from sharing your false presumptions, guessing like that is doing nothing for your deductive skills.” He said flatly, allowing some sharp sarcasm into the first part of his sentence. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, but clearly he was slightly perturbed at not hearing their approach, John apologised quietly again, and it was quite clear he meant it honestly too. It was a shame that his manners – when he chose to use them – didn’t rub off on Sherlock.

 

Mycroft watched them for a few seconds longer before nodding once and turning from the door. He took a few steps, before noting that Greg had slipped his hand out of Mycroft’s. He turned to see Greg in the kitchen with a very stern look on his face, no doubt reiterating Mycroft’s words in a much less polite fashion. When he turned to see Mycroft’s raised eyebrow though he stepped from the kitchen and smiled at him. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of times I’ve had to remind Sherlock about manners, tell me again, why didn’t he go to Eton with you?” he asked. Mycroft smiled slightly in response, taking Greg’s hand again.

 

“He didn’t want to go. According to him it’s full of ‘posh twats destined to bribe their ways through life.’ He thinks he’ll learn more about people if he goes to an average secondary school.” Mycroft had jumped at the chance to go to Eton, it had a huge influence on future universities and jobs to go to such a school. When he’d first started he hadn’t even had being away from Greg for so long to think about. It had been simpler back then, but having Greg in his life was something he simply wouldn’t trade. Greg laughed at that, and God had Mycroft missed that laugh. It was so out of the ordinary for him to miss people in general, let alone miss individual parts of people.

 

“Ah, so he wants to know about us common folk then?” he asked, this time making Mycroft chuckle, the first time since he’d gotten home.

 

“Yes, God knows why, but he clearly thinks there’s something intriguing about you normal people.” The smile was on his lips again, John and Sherlock’s discussion about him fading already. Greg laughed again, leaning up slightly and pressing a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek.

 

The living room was just as warm and comfortable as always, except where the usual bunch of Greg’s siblings sat it was a group of teenagers. Sally, Phillip and Dimmock were sitting on the love seat. Technically it was only for two people but then Sally was sitting on Phillip’s lap, trying to suffocate him with her lips providing enough space on the seat for Dimmock, who like everyone else in the room seemed mildly disgusted by the very public, very affectionate display. Irene was in one of the armchairs, one leg delicately crossed over the other, and that self assured smirk on her painted lips. She and Dimmock seemed to be debating over a trivial matter.

 

Clearly there was some drinking going on, Dimmock already seemed halfway to drunk, but showed no sign of slowing down as he popped open another beer. Sally and Phillip seemed too busy to drink, and Irene had a glass of red wine on the coffee table. Mycroft wouldn’t stop Sherlock from drinking if his brother decided to join in, but he wouldn’t let him get too drunk. Mycroft observed everything from the doorway, eyes scanning across the room before he stepped in after Greg. It was a good thing that he’d scanned before entering.

 

As soon as he stepped inside Irene and Dimmock stopped talking  – it was now clear that Irene had been threatening to expose the crush he had on a teacher – and turned to look. In the wake of their silence Sally untangled her tongue from Phillip and turned to look too. Uncomfortable was an understatement. All noise ceased as they saw Mycroft, Phillip’s jaw physically dropped, giving Mycroft yet another reason to dislike the unfaithful idiot. It was more unexpected for them, they hadn’t been called or told by Sherlock. They would have been expecting thin Mycroft to step into that room, not him the way he was now.

 

The mood in the room was so tense that you could cut it with a knife, the shock from the others and the tension Mycroft was doing all he could to hide from them wasn’t the headed over to the empty sofa and took a seat, Greg sitting right besides him. “Oi, someone throw us a beer…what was that about you having a crush on Miss. Andrews eh Dimmock?” Greg asked with a grin, but it was painfully obvious to Mycroft that it was fake. There was no smile in his eyes, no mischievous twinkle. He was just trying to ease the shock and move everyone on.

 

Despite Greg’s efforts no one moved eyes still trained on Mycroft and his new size. “Not Miss. Andrew’s Gregory, not actually a _Miss_ at all, but rather a _Mrs._ Someone Dimmock has been forced to spend a large amount of time with recently after school, where he’s forced to write large amounts of text, I’d suggest essays.” He said, eyes flicking over the teen only once. “He’s might be an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough to be caught that often…” Mycroft looked away, seemingly disinterested in the others, a few of which had turned to look at a blushing Dimmock now. “He’s been purposefully getting himself on detention in order to see the teacher that supervises after school detentions.”

 

It was a different type of silence now, shifting from shock to a lighter mood. They just need to be reminded who he was and what he could do. Greg started laughing at Dimmock, giving Mycroft’s hand a small squeeze; clearly he knew exactly what Mycroft had done that for. “Mrs. Monroe? Really Dimmock?” Greg laughed, leaning forwards and picking up some beers for himself and Mycroft who took it appreciatively and murmured a thanks as he popped it open. He didn’t like alcohol, but e had a feeling that it’d make this situation somewhat more bearable. He settled back in his seat as the conversation started up again, Dimmock still pink in the face but not really all that displeased with taking centre stage.

 

After that the conversation flowed much more easily, Mycroft only cutting in to correct people when they were wrong. At one point Sherlock and John slipped back into the room, taking a seat on the floor rather than trying to share the remaining table chair with one another. Just like Mycroft Sherlock stayed quiet, speaking up now and then when he had an option – and considering he had an opinion on everything he actually spoke up a lot.

 

“Greg, John, you remember the time in football when the ref gave me a red card so we irritated him until he took it back?” he asked, grin on his face. Greg laughed again, and John hummed.

 

“You deserved that red Dimmock, you used a bloody rugby tackle in a footy match.” John scoffed rolling his eyes, but there was a smile there too. It didn’t slip Mycroft’s notice that each time John smiled Sherlock relaxed a little. He made a note to keep an eye on that but not interfere or ask yet.

 

“Oh God the ref was pissed at us, I think the poor bastard just couldn’t take another moment of your singing.” Greg grinned. Mycroft took a sip of his beer, eyes on Greg. He hadn’t seen nearly enough of the other teen for the last few months, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to get a look now, especially when he seemed so happy and relaxed. “What was it you were singing again?” he asked, but it was easy for Mycroft to see that he already knew the answer. Dimmock and John’s laughing showed that they remembered perfectly well too.

 

“Sex bomb, Tom Jones.” He laughed, and then proceeded to sing a verse in one of the most horrifying impression of Tom Jones that Mycroft had ever heard. He stopped short when Irene spoke up again.

 

“If I were you Dimmock, I’d stop singing or you’re going to find the rest of my wine on that pretty white shirt of yours.” She warned him coolly, taking a sip of said wine. Irene was someone to be careful around. Outgoing and admittedly beautiful she was easily accepted into the top cliques at school. She knew everything that was going on, every iota of information that could be useful to her. With a smirk of her ruby lips and a few whispered words she could send people’s lives crashing around them. She was good to have on your side, but dangerous to cross.

 

Dimmock tapered off cocky grin still in place. “Well, I happen to think I sound Great.” He said. Sherlock scoffed loudly, raising an eyebrow when everyone turned to look. Aside from John that was, he already had his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

 

“Either you’re tone death or you’re even stupider than I first thought.” He said, in his usual ‘You’re all wasting my time and energy’ voice. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at that, an action which caught Dimmock’s eyes.

 

“Hey Greg, maybe you should bring _Mycie_ to practice this week, looks like he could do with some exercise.” He said, smirk playing on his lips. Mycroft stopped himself from freezing, turning to look at Dimmock instead. The room fell silent again, Sherlock’s laughing stopping when John elbowed him in the side.  Clearly they were waiting for Mycroft to snap, to show how he felt about it all. Except it wasn’t him that snapped a response first.

 

“Apologise. I swear to God Dimmock apologize to Mycroft right now or I’ll kick you out the house.” Greg hissed, only the hand Mycroft had quickly placed on his arm preventing him from standing up. Anything that Mycroft may or may not have felt about the comment – he refused to admit that it’d had an impact on him- quickly faded in light of Greg’s explosive outburst. He knew that he wanted to defend Mycroft, that of all the people in the room he probably knew what Mycroft was feeling the best. But he hadn’t expected such a reaction.

 

Neither apparently, had the rest of the room.

 

Dimmock had paled a shade or two. Greg didn’t use it often, but he had one hell of a glare too, and the threat was entirely possible too. He recovered quickly though, playing of his surprise with the usual cocky indifference, “Alright…Jesus Greg I was just joking…Sorry Mycroft, I shouldn’t have said that.” It wasn’t honest at all, but he sounded convincing to the rest of the group. Only Sherlock looked over Mycroft again, conveying that he knew the apology was just as false as the number of girls Dimmock has apparently ‘scored with’.

 

As quick as Greg had angered he settled back again, leaning against Mycroft he took a swig of his beer and nodded smiling again. “Good.” He huffed. Practically the entirety of Greg and Dimmock’s friendship was like that. They’d be joking or messing around and then Dimmock would say something too harsh or take something that step too far, leading Greg – being the kind and caring person that he was – would take it upon himself to stop him and make him apologise. Judging by the other’s reaction though, threats and genuine anger were reserved for defending Mycroft. He was admittedly flattered by that. There were very few people that would do such a thing for him, much less mean it honestly and do it because it was instinctual.

 

Mycroft decided that there was no need for him to add to the conversation, and so he didn’t. Sitting back on the sofa and enjoying the warm weight of Greg against his side. Sitting like this – the odd comment aside- it was all to easy to push his weight out of his mind, not to have the new clothes at the front of his mind or worry about how he looked to the others. Of course all of that was still there, just the majority of his mind was focused on Greg. Conversation picked up soon enough, Greg, Dimmock and Irene striking up a conversation on staff room gossip that held no interest to Mycroft. John was trying to convince Sherlock that he should, in fact, watch James Bond. Sally and Phillip were far too busy entertaining themselves, she was still on his lap, barely managing to get a few sentences out at a time before they were on each other again. A quick scan over them proved that they’d been drinking before the party.

 

Not being involved in the other’s conversations didn’t bother Mycroft, He was rather enjoying listening to Greg speaking, hearing the familiar dips and changes in his tone in person rather than just over the phone. It also gave him the perfect opportunity to appreciate Greg in general. Mycroft was well aware that he wasn’t good with people, he didn’t host parties, he didn’t hold conversation with people he didn’t find interesting for long…but Greg did. The other teen was so at ease there, casually working swigs of beer into the naturally occurring lulls in conversation. Slipping in and out of the other’s conversations as he pleased.

 

He was just so very different from Mycroft, everything from his tan skin, adorable button nose and general physique to his comfort around people. Greg was as close to perfect as it was possible for someone to be, and so Mycroft easily reasoned that if that was the case he was perilously close to being the exact opposite of that too. The only thing that set him above most of the others was his mind and the control he had over it. Sure, he couldn’t control some things, his eating habits came to mind, but his mind was more efficient than the others could ever dream of having. His mind was what he valued the most.

 

Mycroft wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d been observing Greg though, but he estimated it to be around seven minutes. He would have gladly stayed saving every centietre of Greg as he was in that moment to his memory, but the quiet entrance of Anthea pulled him away from that. She looked just the same as ever. Brown hair perfectly curled and flowing past her shoulders, lithe frame in a pair of black skinny jeans and a white blouse, clearly she’d some straight from her shift in TopShop, and had redone her makeup in the bathroom mirror before leaving. She was on her phone, texting what Mycroft could only assume was her boyfriend Joseph.

 

Taking a seat on the kitchen chair moved to accommodate everyone she still didn’t speak or glance up. Irene was the first to greet her, sparking a wave of greetings from the others. Still Anthea didn’t look up, “Hello” she greeted them all at once, smiling without lifting her eyes from the phone. “I put a bottle of Rosé in the kitchen…Mycroft, a word please?”  she said all at once, only then lifting her eyes from the phone and tucking it into her pocket. Mycroft froze. Anthea was one of Mycroft’s closest friends. She knew what he was feeling sometimes before even he had figured it out. Their relationship was so different to what Mycroft and Greg had, but it was just as important to Mycroft. He knew her well enough to know what was coming, and he just didn’t want to deal with it. Surely she knew this wasn’t the time?

 

Anthea didn’t wait to look at Mycroft as she strode out of the room, remarkable graceful for someone sporting four inch stilettos. One of the things Mycroft appreciated most about Anthea was the fact that she could seemingly be typing on her phone, but in reality survey a room. In her look around the room earlier – although peripheral vision wasn’t detailed – she had clearly noted that Mycroft weight had increased again. He gave an assuring half smile to Greg before standing and following after her into the kitchen.

 

She was leaning against the counter, eyes fixed immediately on him as he entered the room. Again he felt the tightness in his stomach, but did his best to push it aside. Standing rigidly as she slowly looked him up and down. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just looked right back at her and let her think, allowing some of the insecurity to creep back into his veins. Anthea sighed quietly, taking a step forward and putting a hand on his arm.

 

That simple, small gesture meant so much more than met the eye. It was her telling him that she was there, that even if he didn’t want it she was going o be there to help him. It was comforting, and it was a condolence. She knew him well enough to save the pity for when she was alone, although it was clearly quite a struggle to keep it back. “It’s not overly terrible Mycroft…” she said stopping when he arched an eyebrow at her. Lying wasn’t going to help, she knew that already “...Alright, so it’s not good, but it could’ve been worse.” She conceded.

 

“Not much worse.” He muttered sourly, again, his irritation was directed at himself, not Anthea. Sherlock was right earlier. He was bigger than he had been before she’d gone on the diet. Anthea had a good enough eye to see that – something that around half the people in the other room just didn’t posses. Anthea sighed softly on his behalf and nodded, understanding that right then he didn’t need a debate about it, he just needed someone that could understand the severity of it without hurling barbs at him.

 

“Your weight isn’t a fixed thing Mycroft, if you want to change it you can.” She told him, reiterating what he already knew and dreaded. It’d help with all of this and he knew it, he just couldn’t bring himself to go back on that diet. It’d been miserable and he’d been in a foul mood…it was his Christmas holidays for God’s sake, surely he could work a good excuse somewhere into that. “”I’ll get some new clothes for you when you feel like telling me your sizes, don’t bother with getting them yourself you take ages in the shops.” He said, her cheeky smile in place. She knew him far too well.

 

Mycroft nodded and smiled slightly in response. “That’d be appreciated, I’ll inform you later on.” When he’d plucked up the nerve to find out his new sizes for himself. “I believe we should be getting back to the party, something about being ‘guest of honour’” he said with an eye roll waiting for her to pour a glass of the Rosé before heading into the living room. Thankfully his entrance that time didn’t cause as much of a reaction. Greg just looked over at them both and practically beamed.

 

“Sit down you two…we can’t call this a party without drinking games.” Even his tone was full of mischief. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at him as he took his place next to Greg again. Drinking games. He just hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go, I hope you enjoyed that!  
> As promised some more on the blog. I have some free time and I just can't seem to get Mycroft out of my head, so I decided I may as well set something up. It's basically a Q&A blog on Tumblr where you can ask Greg, Mycroft, and anyone else that pops up in this fic your questions. I'm sure It'll be a lot of fun, and you'll get to find out more about them than I can fit into this fic, so please do go and check it out and ask away! the link is: http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/


	5. Pirates and Pizza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there guys! Sorry this took so long, it's been a very busy month for me. I've managed to crack out another chapter though, so if it's riddled with mistakes my apologies, feel free to point them out and I'll correct them. I have a question about what you'd like for the next chapter, but more on that at the end. Please do feel free to tell me what you think of this chapter, and I hope you enjoy!

The next few hours of Mycroft’s life proceeded exactly as you’d expect when in the presence of a group that mainly consisted of somewhat drunk, immature teenagers. It was wasted time, nothing productive came from it, there was no deep, meaning conversations; or anything meaningful at all really. He wouldn’t take anything from it that would be beneficial later in his life. Despite that he couldn’t say that he regretted it. Sure, it was time that he was never going to get back, but for those few hours he saw Sherlock sitting happily by John, was able to sit close to Greg, and for the first time in what felt like weeks he wasn’t worried about his weight. 

When Sally and Philip were locked in the cupboard under the stairs for seven minutes of Heaven – it was more like an hour of heaven, no one could tolerate the overly affectionate display for any longer – Mycroft wasn’t thinking about visiting the tailors. When Dimmock drank one shot too many and nearly threw up on the carpet, Mycroft wasn’t dreading about the talk with his parents. When Anthea’s quiet humour made John choke on his beer he wasn’t pulling to mind his reflection. Instead he had something better to think about. Something that was all too easy to let encompass his thoughts. And that something was currently passing him another beer.

Yes, Mycroft knew very well that it was cheesy, or corny, or whichever food related adjective that you chose to describe it with. But he couldn’t deny that at this moment in time it was Greg that filled his usually constantly shifting mind. Were you to ask him the next day he’d blame it on the beer, claim that it had affected his brain and reduced him to the average intellect that he so despised. The truth was that despite being a little tipsy Mycroft still had more mental capacity than most, at a guess more that the top ninety percent of the population. He was just so relieved. Relieved that despite everything that he’d predicted Greg hadn’t seemed disgusted. He hadn’t pulled away from Mycroft or said anything. Instead he’d defended him. Tried to protect his feelings. Sitting next to Greg, thighs touching, he could just appreciate him. The button nose, soft hazel eyes, that grin…some people really were blessed with a beautiful body and a beautiful personality. Mycroft wasn’t blessed by either –his blessing came in the form of his mind - but given the choice he’d take a relationship with such a beautiful person over being beautiful himself. 

If that was selfish he really didn’t care.

Mycroft found himself joining into the conversation more as the beer flowed, at some point Anthea pulled a bottle of rum out, and somehow convinced Greg to put Pirates Of The Caribbean on. Her charming ways were truly beyond him. Even with the alcohol there were some points that Mycroft simply fell quiet deciding silence was the best way to go. “Oh shit, I forgot, I’m ordering Pizza in…Any preferences?” Greg asked. There was a chorus of responses, ranging from Dimmock’s excited yell of ‘meat feast’ to Anthea’s insistence that at least one of the pizzas have olives on. Greg held up a hand in a fairly ineffective attempt to quiet the group before going round and asking people individual what they wanted. Sally and Philip decided on a simple pepperoni– additional comments were raised about anchovies and pineapple, both of which were promptly boycotted. Sherlock wanted a plain cheese, which John agreed to share. It wasn’t likely that Sherlock would have more than one slice anyway.

Anthea and Irene settled on sharing an olive, pepper and chicken pizza. Dimmock – unsurprisingly – voted meat feast seconded by Greg so long as it was covered in jalapenos and as spicy as possible. Leaving Mycroft to decide what he wanted. He’d known this was coming. Despite the fact that everyone else was going to be eating pizza too there’d be a stigma when he ate. There’d be the sideway glances, the eye rolls and the almost too quiet to hear comments. You couldn’t eat if you were fat without being judged for it. That was just how it was. “Mushrooms, olive and pepperoni, thanks.” He said as soon as Greg’s eyes turned to look questioningly at him. The order rolled easily from his tongue, a fact that no doubt Sherlock picked up on. Maybe he’d ordered a few too many pizzas to his room, but it was a bit late to change it now.

Greg slipped out of the room to place the order, dropping back into place by Mycroft and wrapping his arm around the others waist. Mycroft froze for a moment, and Greg took the hint. Mumbling a quiet apology before moving his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders instead. Having Greg’s arms anywhere near his stomach or sides like that simply wasn’t acceptable. No amount of baggy clothes would be able to hide any of the extra weight then. It just couldn’t be allowed. He could barely stand for Greg to even see him at his current size, let alone be so close to his stomach. With the call made the group settled back into conversation, the pizzas were anxiously waited for, hoping to dull the effect of the alcohol and sate their hunger for greasy and absolutely necessary drunk food.

As usual the conversation flowed between multiple topics, ranging from the alien films – Greg’s favourites – to the obscure and completely unrelated topics like the gestation periods of multiple animals. Mycroft could only tolerate hearing the group debate the last point for a limited time, eventually stepping in and reeling off the ones they’d been arguing over. It was useful in distracting from the fact that Greg’s arm was still in fact wrapped around his shoulders. Contact wasn’t Mycroft’s strong suit at the best of times. With close friends, some family members and Greg he could accept. Willingly initiate it at times. But at his current size even the smallest, most innocent touches – to his torso especially – were more than a little disconcerting. 

The clash of swords flowing from the television’s speakers did wonders for filling the natural ebbs in conversation, gave the group some time to consider which topic of conversation they wished to initiate next. There were a few more energetic debates started. Irene battered contesting comments off with the lazy assurance of someone swatting a fly, Dimmock’s strategy was to be as loud as he could, Greg never stopped grinning, and Mycroft only chimed in to say who was actually correct. It didn’t feel like long until the doorbell was ringing, announcing the arrival of the pizza. Greg stood once again fishing in his pocket for his wallet as he walked towards the door. John also rose to his feet, offering to give him a hand as he followed. The silence was filled with apprehension. Excitement for the food from the others and simple wariness from Mycroft.

He hadn’t eaten in front of such a large number of people for months. Even back at Eton Mycroft had rarely eaten in the canteen, when he had it certainly wasn’t in the view of so many people. It’d be rude to turn down the pizza now though, and really he was pretty hungry. An apple and a slice of cake was hardly enough to get by on, it barely counted as a snack. Mycroft would make sure to reimburse Greg for the food and the beer that he’d bought. Greg probably wouldn’t be best pleased if Mycroft forced the money on him, it was much easier just to slip small amounts where Greg would have left money anyway. The truth of the matter was that Mycroft had money, much more than he needed, and Greg…well, Greg didn’t. If he ever noticed that the change left around his room increased when Mycroft was over he didn’t comment on it.

John’s laugh entered the room before the teen himself, a smug looking Greg following close behind. Clearly he was proud of whichever joke he’d made there. The pizza was handed out quickly and efficiently, prompting people to rearrange themselves slightly so they could reach the pizza they were sharing. Mycroft didn’t have to move. He was the only one with a pizza to himself. Usually that’d be considered a good thing, something to brag about. Had he been thin that would have been acceptable, just not at his current weight. ‘Just a number’ really wasn’t true was it?

The chorus of thanks, soon fell quiet as everyone tucked in, eyes fixed on the film. Pirates had never really been Mycroft’s favourite. They were just so inaccurate. Pirates were thieves, they were dangerous and their morals were dubious at best. All the interpretations tried to romanticise them. Of course, he did have some fond memories of Sherlock’s former passion for the characters. Sword fighting up the stairs, pillaging mummy’s room for ‘hidden’ presents, sitting on the sofa and watching as many pirate films as Sherlock could get his hands on. He’d tolerate pirates only because of those memories. 

Most people – Sherlock and Mycroft excluded – looked to be enjoying their pizza. Sherlock never really looked as if he was enjoying food though. Mycroft was pleased to see that he ate a slice and a half of the pizza before abandoning it at turning to give his full attention to the film. The pizza was wonderful. Truly there was no other place that made it quite as nicely as the local pizza place. Had he been at Eton there’d be no doubt that he’d finish the pizza off himself. Only here that wasn’t going to happen. He ate slowly, almost painfully so, savouring the salty cheese and the tangy sauce. Sherlock’s attention may have been on the television, but that didn’t apply to everyone. It was Phillip this time that made Mycroft freeze. Somehow it wasn’t surprising that Phillip hadn’t yet realised that Mycroft could read his lips, or actually that whispering meant that you spoke very softly and quietly. 

Thankfully for Phillip no one but Sally seemed to hear what he had said, and not wanting to start a scene Mycroft didn’t comment either. Just shot him a warning look when he glanced over watching to see the ‘show’ that was evidently Mycroft eating the pizza. Some people’s mental capabilities hadn’t improved at all, still stuck at the same IQ as the Neanderthals. Phillip was the perfect example of such a person. The only sense he’d shown so far was looking away and keeping his mouth shut after the warning. Despite the fact that Greg had stood up for him, Mycroft was capable of looking after himself. He only ate two slices of the pizza before placing the box on the coffee table. A normal amount for Sherlock, a tiny amount for the rest of the people present. Truthfully he was still hungry, but he’d eaten enough to at least prevent his stomach from rumbling and allow him to think of something over than food.

Greg glanced over with a slight frown when Mycroft put the box down, giving him a questioning and slightly worried look. He felt Anthea do the same. Both knew better than to ask, so Mycroft assumed that he was in the safe for now. Anthea wouldn’t bring it up in front of so many people, and she wouldn’t comment any other time but today, so he doubted that she’d ever actually comment on it at all. Greg on the other hand would have the opportunity to question him on it later. Even so Mycroft assumed that he’d have forgotten by the time they were alone anyway. Not eating more of the pizza could easily be explained by saying he’d had something before he’d left. It wasn’t like he could just explain that he was embarrassed to be eating in front of them, or that the stigma of it wasn’t something he had the energy to face at the moment. He just wanted to enjoy the night.

And he did. With the pizza done with, the mostly empty boxes staked by the table, and the leftovers in the kitchen the relaxed chatter of the group began again, starting with a conversation between Anthea and Sherlock about rum and pirates. The resulting conversations were certainly amusing and even Mycroft couldn’t suppress an odd chuckle at the witty exchange between the two.

It was almost eleven o’clock before Mycroft finally declared it was time for Sherlock to go home and called a taxi for him. He’d promised mummy that he’d be home before twelve, and he intended to keep that promise. Sherlock’s grumbles and groans were sharply cut off when John insisted on seeing him home. Mycroft safely tucked that information away and shared a small smirk with Greg. They were all thinking the same thing anyway. John wasn’t quiet, he had good friends both in and out of school, most of which would undoubtedly be better friends than Sherlock. After all most people’s friends don’t take blood samples for an experiment, and they don’t behave anywhere near as appallingly as Sherlock could. 

Yet despite that there was no competition to be his best friend. That position had been filled within hours of meeting Sherlock and no one could dispute it. Someone who could put up with Sherlock – an impressive feat that even Mycroft struggled with at times – had raised eyebrows from the start. It was obvious to everyone that knew them that there was something else there. The two still had to figure that out for themselves. The group at the party already had bets on how long it’d take for the penny to drop. It couldn’t be long now. 

With the youngest member of the group gone Irene declared that it was time for the true party games, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair as she spoke. “Well, juniors gone home, there’s plenty of drinks left…it’d be such a shame to waste it all would it?” she asked, a smirk curling her lips. Irene was clearly up to something. As she was driving Philip and Sally home she’d avoided drinking much, still on the same glass of wine as when they’d entered. This was the perfect opportunity to learn what she could about people without claims of forcing them to admit anything. It must so be tiresome to have to wait for opportunities like this instead of just reading it from people like Mycroft did. “So, Mycroft, as the guest of honour you get to go first…Truth or dare?” she asked.

Mycroft didn’t answer immediately; well aware of the fact that everyone’s eyes were on him. Even Sally and Phillip were watching. Evidently the threat of being locked back in the cupboard was enough to reduce their display to little more than pecks and occupying the same spot on the sofa. Mycroft was now in a position that he didn’t want to be in, Irene had picked him just because she knew he wouldn’t want it, and she wanted to see how he reacted. It took no effort to keep his posture as relaxed as possible, his facial expression unchanging. He couldn’t step away from the question… that would be backing down to Irene. He needed to make sure that she wasn’t finding out how to get to him again. Both truth and dare ran an equal risk of humiliation; it was just trying to decide which would be the least memorable. With Dimmock and Irene present dares were incredibly risky, it was likely that truths were the safest bet. He had a feeling that he was going to regret it no matter which one he picked/ “If you insist on me taking part Irene, then I’d have to pick truth.” He said voice not exactly cold but certainly not warm either. 

"You know, when I said guest of honour I didn't mean it like that Irene, he doesn't have to go first." Greg mumbled quietly, more of an apology to Mycroft for putting him in that position rather than actually getting him out of it. It was too quiet to be heard clearly, and it certainly didn't stop Dimmock from asking Mycroft a truth.

“How’d you let yourself go like that?” Dimmock asked unsurprisingly. Greg tensed beside Mycroft, opening his mouth to say something before he was cut of by Irene.

“Shut up Dimmock.” She said, smirk falling for a moment. She even managed to subtly hint at the inflections in Greg’s accent. “I am curious though…how did you let yourself go?” she asked, with a smile that looked more like baring teeth than anything else. 

“I forfeit the question.” Mycroft all but snarled, letting a little of his irritation sneak past his barriers. Practically daring anyone to protest. Greg shuffled a little further away from Mycroft on the seat, correctly assuming that he’d want more space. Mycroft might have been concerned at how well Greg could read him, but there were more pressing things occurring. 

Anthea tilted her head watching Mycroft. She was curious too. He could read that easily. She wouldn’t ask though, certainly wouldn’t force him to answer. “Alright, your forfeit is a dare.” She declared confidently. “Because you’re the ‘guest of honour’ I’ll make it a nice one.” She repeated Irene’s words. She hadn’t actually thought of a dare yet, but she was thinking. “I dare you to get us all a refill of our drinks. You’ll need to get me a glass of Rosé from the kitchen and Irene will have a diet coke.”

That was a nice one and Mycroft nodded his thanks to her before rising from his seat to get the drinks from the kitchen. It gave him time to calm himself again. Dimmock was fast wearing on his patience, another comment and he doubted that he’d be able to restrain from declaring everything he could deduce about the other. Even with the alcohol in his veins he could read enough to make sure that it wasn’t an enjoyable experience for him at all. Of course, he knew that Anthea had not only removed him from the room to calm himself down and reconstruct the barricades that separated comments like that and his feeling, but also to give them time to have a word with the others.

He always questioned what it was exactly that explained why he had such loyal and kind friends. Mycroft wouldn’t deny that when it came to the people that he liked and trusted he was defensive, but he wasn’t the person to go to if you wanted a shoulder to cry on. He wasn’t supportive emotionally most of the time. Mycroft was well aware of all the processes that he was supposed to go through to provide comfort, he knew all the theory behind it, yet putting it into practice was something that required great difficulty on his part. 

How did he know that his friends were having a ‘word’ with the others about holding their tongue? It was because the room had fallen quiet. There was no chattering between the others, just the sound of the film in the background. He was half curious about what it was exactly they were saying, but then he wouldn’t deduce it. Things like that were really better for everyone if he pretended that he didn’t know they’d done anything at all. He waited another minute or two until the chatting started up again before bringing Irene and Anthea’s drinks in. Dimmock, Sally and Phillip had the decency to look a little sheepish about whatever it was they’d said, but no one apologised. Fair enough. So long as they stopped he didn’t need an apology.

“Who’s next?” he asked, voice back to it’s normal tone. There was a hum as Sally decided to call the shots for this one. 

“Irene, you can go next.” She decided after a moment. “Truth or dare.” Now, Mycroft wasn’t exactly fond of Sally. It was something to do with the fact that she’d called Sherlock a freak on multiple occasions. That being said she wasn’t that much of an idiot, certainly still an idiot considering how she hadn’t actually stopped the nickname she’d settled on for Sherlock, but enough that he could tolerate her being there at least. Sally had a backbone, and she stuck to her convictions, a trait that Mycroft thought too many people lacked. A few setbacks that would certainly need to be resolved if they were going to get along at all. Learning respect was one of those.

“Dare.” Irene’s response came swiftly, her certainty probably wasn’t the wisest considering the nature of the game, but she pulled it off perfectly, just enough interest to prove she was invested in the game, but not enough to encroach on the distance she’d set up between herself and the alcohol tainted majority. She was collecting information, things she could use on the people present and anyone that came up n conversation. For Irene that was probably more interesting than any other game they could come up with – short of taunting other people that was. 

“Take your shirt off.” Dimmock grinned, sharp stopping that when Greg’s hand thwacked against the back of his head. 

“Don’t be a pervert Dimmock.” He chastised him. Obviously deciding that some ground rules applied. Not that Irene would have been uncomfortable, she’d merely shrugged at the suggestion. “Irene, your dare is to put lipstick on someone…without using your hands.” He grinned quite clearly proud of his decision. 

“Easy.” She said with a smirk, digging into her bag and pulling out a tube of lipstick. It wasn’t the same colour that she had on her own lips, which considering the boldness of the colour wasn’t a bad thing. “Anthea, I’m putting it on your lips, It’s more your colour than anyone else’s.” She explained. Mycroft scanned over her, figuring out if that was the true reason, and it was, Irene didn’t seem to have any qualms other than that about who she was going to put the lipstick on. Anthea tilted her head slightly as he evaluated the colour. 

“Alright then, don’t get it all over my face mind, I don’t have make-up remover on me.” She warned, shuffling to make it a little easier on Irene. Irene positioned the lipstick between her teeth, leaning forwards and managing to get the lipstick looking exceptionally neat considering the circumstances. A slight clean up with one of Anthea’s nails and it was as if it’d been applied by hand. 

The rest of the game proceeded in a similar fashion. The truths weren’t interesting to Mycroft considering he knew it all already, but he had to admit that the dares were fairly amusing, especially considering how Phillip and drank some hot sauce, and Dimmock had a taste of his own medicine when Sally picked the dare and he had to sit in nothing but his boxers for the next half hour. All in all the game fulfilled its goal. Everyone – including Mycroft – had laughed at least once. It was all good-natured too, no more sly truths designed to embarrass and humiliate Mycroft, so clearly whatever Greg and Anthea had said to the others had worked. A relief for Mycroft to say the least. 

He had to admit that he was glad to go to the party. Seeing Greg again was exactly what he needed. And aside from a few blips with his weight it really hadn’t been as terrible as he had expected. Everyone was just how he remembered them, and considering that Mycroft wasn’t all too fond of change that was a good thing. It was a reminder that he was at home, and for the next month he’d be able to spend time with his friends – or for at least two weeks of the holiday, the others didn’t break up from school for another week. Mycroft was looking forward to it, especially getting to be alone with Greg again. It’d been far too long since he’d just gotten to spend time with him, without the presence of an audience, and to actually talk to him in person rather than over the phone? 

Yes, he was looking forwards to getting some time with Greg again. He could only hope that Greg had similar feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! I hope that was up to standard for you guys. 
> 
> So, for the next chapter, I can either have them play a few more party games, get up to a little more mischief, or we can move it on to the others leaving and Mycroft and Greg finally getting some time together. I'd be more than happy to do either, so please drop your opinion in the comments on the boy's blog over at http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/ Feel free to ask them any questions you have too, it'll be a bit of fun!
> 
> So, I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading!


	6. Alone at last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about how long this chapter took! I know that excuses aren't going to cut it, but things have been exhaustingly busy and stressful over the past few months. I hope you guys are willing to forgive me and keep reading, I'll do my best to update more regularly, but no promises can be made. Thank you all so much for reading in the first place, and as always if you spot a mistake, have any questions or opinions, please do just drop a comment and let me know!

The next few hours of Mycroft’s life progressed without a hiccup, nothing more than a blur of conversation and idiotic actions. He doubted that those hours of his live would be recoverable, yet somehow he was contented with allowing those hours to stay as the blur they were in his mind. Some may take precaution to preserve memories involving such a large gathering of friends. But truly the majority of people present weren’t Mycroft’s friends. Yes, Anthea was possibly the best friend he could have asked for, and there could be no denying that Greg was so much more to Mycroft than a friend. As for the rest…well, they were of little importance to Mycroft, friends of Greg that he had to tolerate in order to ensure that Greg was happy, that he didn’t feel that he had to pick between his friends and Mycroft.

Perhaps it was a little insecurity that led to Mycroft’s acceptance of Greg’s friends. He was not, and never would be, a sociable person. Once someone had lost their value to him he stopped the contact with scarcely a word of explanation. Perhaps part of him feared that if he were to put Greg in a position where he had to choose between his friends and Mycroft, their relationship would come to a close. He knew that while he was away in Eton Greg’s friends became the source of support and company that Mycroft should have been. He knew that his friends were much more likely to go out and do what Greg enjoyed without complaining about how it was idiotic or about the crowds. Surely they made better company than he did, and the fact that it was his own best interest in mind rather than Greg’s happiness didn’t much improve matters. So Mycroft tolerated them, rarely complaining about their presence, making sure that Greg understood that a choice didn’t have to be made. 

It was the early hours of the morning when the party energy started to dissipate, what had been laughter turning into yawns and often from Dimmock groans of discomfort from the alcohol induced nausea. He’d brought it on himself, Mycroft felt no sympathy for him, and going by Irene’s teasing, nor did many others. As was the norm for parties such as this, the group left almost collectively, the designated driver taking the others home and ensuring that Dimmock didn’t get lost. The goodbye’s were standard, with Mycroft refusing to move from his seat on the sofa for such a pointless formality, and Greg insisting on walking them to the door, clearly hoping to fit in a few last minute wise-cracks that his slightly alcohol dulled brain had only just managed to concoct. Most of the party-goers left without much of a goodbye to Mycroft aside, of course, from Anthea. Who insisted on wrapping her arms around the others shoulders, cautious even when drunk about where he would tolerate her arms. She wasn’t fazed by the fact that Mycroft hadn’t moved to return the hug. 

“You listen to me Holmes. I might be drunk, but I still know you. Stop worrying. Relax. Greg’s so happy that you’re hear that it almost makes me want to vomit.” He said quietly, lips mere inches from his ear. 

“Clearly you’re more drunk than you believe if you think I have a choice in the matter. I do not.” Mycroft responded simply, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her. The responding sigh from Anthea was that of an exasperated woman too tired and drunk to actually do much about what the other had said.

“Then just try, alright? He missed you as much as you missed him. For both your sakes lighten up a little, enjoy his company.” She countered. Again Mycroft was struck with the desire to know what exactly he had done in a former life in order to explain Anthea’s friendship. He knew all to well that he had done nothing to deserve it in this one. 

“Go to bed, Anthea, drink a glass of water before you do.” Mycroft responded simply, evidently done with the conversation. He had nothing more to say, he could change whether or not he was relaxed, certainly not with problems to the scale of the ones currently on his mind. 

“Right. Thanks for the reminder.” Anthea said with a roll of her eyes, finally unfolding her arms from the other and stepping away. Much to Mycroft’s relief. “You and me need to have a sit down and a few important conversations. I’ll arrange it, all you need to do it show up and sit through it. Night Mycroft, have a nice time with Greg.” 

It was more of a command than a well wish. As if she was trying to order him to have a good time. “ ‘You and I’ Anthea, surely your education has been sufficient enough to teach you proper grammar. Goodnight.” He said almost tiredly, those conversations were not something that he was looking forward to. You really didn’t have to be a Holmes to understand what she wanted to talk about. He understood perfectly well that it was her intention to help, to draw up a plan of action and make it all as easy as possible for him, as she so often did. Yet that didn’t mean it was going to be an enjoyable time for him. Anthea just laughed as she turned and headed from the room, not at all fazed by his comment after her grammatical error. How nice it must be to posses a mind that didn’t care so much for the small things, that didn’t note the problems in everything they were presented with, or didn’t have the ability to see past the white lies so often used. After all, Goldfish don’t have the capacity to understand their own stupidity, you can not miss something that you never possessed in the first place.

Anthea’s farewells to Greg could be heard from the living room, followed shortly by the click of a closing door and the settling of a much-needed silence over the house. In a house like this one silence was more unusual than you might expect. There was rarely a time that the occupants were home and weren’t making some form of noise, and it was rarely unoccupied. The fact of the matter was that the Lestrade family didn’t have enough money to afford holidays, certainly not with Greg’s brothers and sisters and no father to help provide for them. It was a topic that Mycroft very rarely broached. There was no secret that the Holmes’ had money, Mycroft himself probably earned as much as Greg’s mother did when he decided to work, and that was without his parents’ contribution and the money that was passed down with the name. The house was big, Mycroft attended an incredibly expensive school, they owned posh cars, first edition books, tailored clothes. There was money to spare. Bringing up a conversation like that where Mycroft had so much for little and Greg and his family had to work so hard to maintain the little they had…it wasn’t fair.

Mycroft followed the sound of Greg’s feet as the other moved back through the hall, until the head of brown hair, and that beautiful smiling face appeared at the living room door. Greg stopped there for a moment, just looking at Mycroft, although why Mycroft had no idea. He just raised an eyebrow at the other watching him back. This was the first time they’d been alone together since he’d left for Eton. Mycroft just wanted it to go back to normal. For them to fall back into that easy way they’d had before he left. Greg had been the only person that Mycroft felt he could relax with, the only one he’d trust enough to allow himself that emotional freedom he kept under lock and key with others.

It always took some time for things to go back to normal after Mycroft’d come back from Eton. There was so much that could change during term times, so much that could happen. A lot had changed this time, Mycroft had changed a lot. That made it more difficult, but they could still bring it back to how it’d been before. Mycroft hoped he wasn’t the only one that thought that. A soft sigh from the doorway drew Mycroft out of his thoughts enough for him to watch as Greg padded over to the sofa and dropped into it with a huff, allowing his limbs to settle in the position they’d landed in. He must be tired, not that Mycroft could blame him, he’d been a good host to the others, and it had been a long day preparing the party too, the house was remarkably tidy for so many children. Mycroft had no doubt that was down to Gregory, likely upon insistence from his mother.

Neither boy said anything for what Mycroft counted to be four minutes and fifty-three seconds. This was it. The awkward time when neither knew what to say to each other, what to talk about and where to start. The elephant in the room didn’t help, Greg knew that it was an area that absolutely should not be commented on at that moment in time. The alcohol made him more likely to want to talk about it, but he was hoping there wasn’t enough of that in Greg’s blood stream for it to have an effect. “So…anything happen at Eton since last time we talked on the phone?” Greg asked, trying to get the conversational ball rolling, it was good that he knew Mycroft wasn’t going to be the one to do that. Mycroft could manage this, it was just Greg, Greg hadn’t changed since last time he’d seen him, let alone since last time they’d talked on the phone. 

“I’m afraid not…the issue with Charlie and Aaron has not yet been resolved, their acts of petty revenge have escalated to weekly parties where they alternately initiate as many promiscuous acts as possible and post the evidence on instagram.” He rolled his eyes. There was teenage drama in Eton too, evidently. 

Greg just laughed at that, “Yeah? Don’t worry Myc I’m sure it’ll have blown over by the time you go back to school. No more arguing to keep you awake.” He smiled, sitting up and turning so that those big, warm eyes were focused directly on Mycroft. He wanted to turn away, hide himself, but at the same time those eyes were so achingly familiar that he feared it’d cause physical pain if he moved away from them. So he stayed put, focusing on Greg’s eyes and the warmth they held instead of what they were looking at.

“I should hope so. What I fail to understand though, is why it reached this point of stupidity, when neither party were faithful to begin with.” Mycroft said exasperatedly. “I meant to ask last time I called, but I believe your mother needed the phone before I could ask.” He said. Greg’s smile grew at that, Mycroft was well aware how much he enjoyed the rare occasions he had to explain something to Mycroft…which was exactly why he’d factored it into the conversation.

“Oh right…it’s because they won’t feel as if they were appreciated, which would piss them off straight away. It’s like neither of them cared enough about each other to stay faithful, so they’d be hurt by that, and then start the whole ‘I can kiss more people than you can’ thing.” He explained. “Yeah, she needed the phone to call someone about an interview…she didn’t get it so she’s still looking for other jobs.” Greg said. He managed to sound upbeat about it, but the worry behind the cheer was blatantly obvious to Mycroft.

“I’m sure that she’ll find a better job, Gregory, she’s a highly experienced and hard working woman, interviewers will recognise that.” He assured him, voice softening as it did so rarely around those that he cared about. “And I suppose that makes sense, their own actions were overlooked in the face of the other’s offences.” He concluded, adding that point to the list of social abnormalities that he wasn’t so good at grasping. 

Greg smiled at the reassurance, shuffling closer to Mycroft again, as if the physical proximity was reassuring too. It probably was. “My coach says that the rugby team looks like it’s going to be doing well this year, but our football techniques gone downhill. He’s convinced that it’s because people keep dicking around in training. I mean, he’s probably right…but it’s only meant to be a bit of fun you know?” he asked. Mycroft hoped that was rhetorical.

“Well, clearly making you captain of the rugby team has been very effective in improving the teams’ performance. So long as you keep your grades up – and I’m sure you’ll have no problems at all with that – the team will do well this season.” He said, which was practically all Mycroft could say on the topic. Greg still looked worried, more so than earlier actually, but Mycroft just assumed that it was still to do with his mother’s difficulty in finding a better paying job and thought nothing more on the subject. 

“You sound different, you know.” Greg said, and Mycroft was glad that the topic was changing from sports. “I thought maybe it was just the phone…but it’s not. You always come home sounding all posh and smart…well, posher and smarter than usual…Oi, don’t give me that look, you know I didn’t mean it like that” Greg laughed at the look Mycroft gave him, raised eyebrows, almost asking if he was sure he wanted to continue speaking. Mycroft was careful that it didn’t look harsh though, there were no hard feelings about a fact as innocent as a change in his voice. “It’s just different. You still sound like you, just posher.”

Mycroft couldn’t help it, the look he was giving disintegrated to be replaced by a soft smile. “Well my dear, you sound as you always have. Which is a great comfort to me.” He told him honestly, the ‘my dear’ slipping out so naturally that he only noticed it when he reviewed his words. The happy, relieved expression Greg was wearing showed that he hadn’t missed it in the slightest.

“I really fucking missed you Myc…I know you have to go to school, and I’m glad you’re going somewhere that’ll make you sound even nearly as smart as you are…I just wish the terms weren’t so long.” He said, moving again, but this time to lean against Mycroft, resting his head on the other’s shoulder. Mycroft responded in kind, tilting his head to rest it against Greg, breathing him in. 

“I know. I missed you too…it seems that out conversations on the phone don’t even come close to actually being in proximity to you. I didn’t realise how dependent I had become upon your company.” He said. Which was the Mycroftian way of saying that it had been difficult without Greg. That he’d never imagined that it would be quite so tough going without him. It was lucky for Mycroft that Greg was fluent in Mycroftian. 

Greg just laughed a little. “You’re sweet when you haven’t seen me in ages…might have to deprive you of my company more often.” He teased snuffling Mycroft’s shoulder. The sound of complaint that Mycroft made elicited a wonderful laugh from Greg. 

“No. I don’t get nearly enough time at home. Any more deprivation than that I already have to endure while at school would be unbearable.” He said. The wonderful thing was that he meant it honestly. It was so easy to forget his problems when he was with Greg. So easy to pretend that his weight hadn’t increased so rapidly. 

“See? You’re proving my point ” Greg said, pulling back slightly to plant a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. In Mycroft’s mind however, that was far too brief an interaction. So he put a hand on Greg’s shoulder to stop him from moving too far away, and then took a moment to just look at him. To drink him in. Every line, every plane, every scar on his perfect face, he wanted to make sure that every detail was accounted for. With that done he closed the distance between them, oh so carefully taking Greg’s lips with his. 

Greg responded exactly how Mycroft had hoped he would, moving so that it was more comfortable for both of them, and deepening the kiss. It remained gentle and slow, but Greg expertly managed to fill it with a heat that stole Mycroft’s breath. Greg’s lips opened against his allowing his tongue to nudge softly along the edges. Opening his own lips was the natural thing to do. Before Mycroft could comprehend how, Greg’s hands were in his hair, and his hands were sliding over Greg’s shoulders. He wanted nothing more that to let it continue, to get his fill of Greg after so long apart. But the insecurity came crashing in, Greg had moved too close. Mycroft couldn’t bare for the other to be so close to his stomach, so close to realising just how bad Mycroft had allowed it to get.

So he pulled away not abruptly, he didn’t want to raise suspicion, and rested his forehead against Greg’s for a moment as he caught his breath and removed his hands from the other. When Greg realised that Mycroft wasn’t going to resume the activity he shuffled back to allow him space, cheeks flushed and adorably pink. Mycroft knew he was flushed too, but he assumed that he looked more like a tomato the cherub like beauty that Greg was in that moment. Not once had Greg pushed Mycroft to go further than he wanted, at with how happy and relaxed Greg looked this wasn’t going to be an exception. “I’m never going to get over how good you are at that.” Greg sighed happily, tucking his feet up under him and leaning against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I learned from the best.” Was Mycroft’s simple response. He didn’t have to look to see that Greg was happy with the response. He knew exactly which cheeky grin would be plastered on the other’s lips. With Greg curled up and comfortable, Mycroft found himself relaxing too, his own posture softening so he was leaning against the other too. Greg kept his arms to himself, and was clearly making an effort to avoid anywhere that he suspected that Mycroft might be conscious of. It was bittersweet. On one hand he was soothed by the fact that Greg was making an effort, but on the other it meant that Greg had noticed the weight. Of course he’d noticed. He may not be a Holmes, but Greg was observant and smarter than people gave him credit for. He could tell how bad the damage was even with the careful wardrobe choices that Mycroft had made. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, to relax.

Greg didn’t seem to notice the tension, just picked up the T.V remote, and flicked to an old, black and white movie that was on the television. Not something either of them would watch usually, but with the gentle mood in the room, and the alcohol that was flowing through their veins just enough to loosen them up a little, it was perfect. What Greg would call the ‘old-timey’ language was soothing. Just as Mycroft was beginning to relax properly for the first time since he’d been home from Eton…his stomach growled. He felt the heat rush to his cheeks in embarrassment, his muscles coiled in anticipation of the ‘hungry again? No wonder you packed so much on’ that his brain was convinced Greg was going to say. 

Instead of what Mycroft’s brain was desperately trying to convince him. Greg didn’t say anything at all like that. He just slid off the sofa and stretched. “One minute.” He mumbled softly as he slipped from the room. He probably wanted a break. You could only pretend to be attracted to someone that resembled a humanoid mass of jelly for so long. The very vocal complaint from his stomach must have been the last straw. Mycroft reasoned that it was the alcohol that was prompting his brain to be so cruel, that was trying to convince him that everything Greg had said about missing him had been a lie…but he knew that it was just allowing it to slip from the usually heavily guarded room in his head. Those thoughts would have been there anyway, just usually he wouldn’t have given them a chance to be centre stage in his mind.

While Greg was gone Mycroft just sat dead still eyes closed, spine rigid, trying to ignore the occasion rumble of his stomach. He dreaded Greg’s return. But when the other returned and Mycroft’s eyes opened to avoid being asked what was wrong. He found that Greg wasn’t looking at him with disgust, but rather concern, and that he was holding a plate with the leftovers of Mycroft’s pizza on it, and two open beers. “Here. You only had two slices Mycroft. That might be enough for Sherlock, but it sure as hell isn’t enough for anyone else. I’m not going to ask why you only had two, and you don’t have to explain it to me…but I’m not about to sit here and let you go hungry for one stupid reason or another. Got it?” Greg asked, his voice firm and unwavering, the caring and compassion still there, but under a layer of authority that Mycroft had almost forgotten that Greg possessed. 

When Mycroft didn’t take the pizza from Greg, just remained still and watched, the other sighed and placed the plate on the table with the beers. “Alright then…I’m going to go get changed and get a blanket. You can eat when I’m not in the room.” He said, voice softer now, gentle. It was as if he knew that Mycroft just couldn’t bring himself to move or take the pizza until he had forced that harsh voice in his head back into the room it was usually locked in. He couldn’t take the pizza because he couldn’t just eat in front of Greg, not when he looked like this. Mycroft could see that it was upsetting Greg, that he could see just how difficult it was for Mycroft. That meant that he’d let the mask slip a little, enough for Greg to be able to read too much. 

Greg just pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s cheek again, and then headed back out of the room to get changed. With the other gone Mycroft managed to wrestle that voice back away, and then reassure himself that Greg really had missed him, that he cared about Mycroft. It was only then that he picked up a slice of the pizza…then another…and another…and another…and another. There were only two slices left on the plate when Mycroft stopped, forcing himself not to take another slice. He wasn’t hungry anymore, he didn’t need it. He did however, pick up a beer and sip that instead. When Greg returned in a pair of pyjamas and his arms full of a duvet Mycroft had gotten himself to settle back into a somewhat tense, but composed state. Almost back to normal.

The smile that appeared on Greg’s lips when he saw that Mycroft had eaten the pizza was a genuine smile of relief. “I thought that we’d just sleep down here, sofa’s big enough for the two of us, and my room gets too cold.” He said, throwing the duvet over the sofa and then throwing Mycroft a set of clothes. “Go put those on…they’re yours, you left them here ages ago I just didn’t want to give them back.” He said, cheeky smile on his face again. 

“That’s acceptable with me, wherever you’d prefer.” He said, and then examined the garments. He recognised them to be a set of his larger pyjamas, ones that had escaped the overhaul of his wardrobe when he’d lost the weight. He was glad for Greg’s sentimentality now, they’d been bought slightly loose on him, they’d fit no trouble this time too. Mycroft stood from the sofa. “Thank you.” He said softly, pulling Greg into another gentle kiss, he didn’t allow it to last long though. It was for everything. For being careful not to touch him where he was insecure, for not being obviously disgusted, for taking care of him. For caring so much. 

“You don’t have to thank me.” Greg said softly, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Now, go get changed, then we can watch this old film, finish our beers and get some shut eye.” He said. 

“Sounds wonderful.” Mycroft said, walking out of the living room and into the bathroom to change. As always the fact that someone as kind, loving and gentle as Greg could possibly want to be with someone like him was astounding to Mycroft. How could he expect someone to be with him at this weight when he had to turn his back to the mirror to change? The answer was he couldn’t. He just had to hope that whatever had attracted Greg to Mycroft could endure the stress of his weight until he could fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then! I hope you enjoyed reading! I felt bad for Mycroft writing this up. It's really, really awful to feel bad about yourself. Far too many of us know what that's like. I hope this lives up to your standards after such a long wait. If any of you would like to ask the boys ( or me!) any questions the blog is still up, it'll be a bit of fun if you fancy it :) I'm also going to try responding to every comment, so sorry if it means you get more than one message from me, I just want you to know that they're being read and very much appreciated. I'll do my best to update soon, certainly less time than this one took to post. Thanks again for reading!
> 
> Blog link: http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/


	7. Trip to the tailors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's me, I'm not dead, I'm still writing this fic and I'm once again terribly sorry about not posting sooner. I know I'm terrible, I hate me for being so slow to update too. If any of you have stuck around to read more though (And haven't gone to find a better writer that updates faster) I hope that you enjoy this chapter! Also! My other story reached a 100 kudos! Thank you all so much for hitting that button, I really am touched that so many people liked it! But more on that - and my excuse for how late this is - at the bottom. As always if you spot a mistake or have anything to say about this chapter, please do leave a comment, I live for them. Without further delay, here's the chapter!

Going home the next afternoon was much more difficult than Mycroft had expected it to be. It wasn’t that he was hungover, or that he had car issues, it was more that it was leaving Greg and the last time he’d done that he hadn’t seen him for months. While it may have been an opportunity to study and evaluate the effects of operant conditioning at another time, this was too personal even for him. Perhaps at a different time, where he didn’t have to kiss Greg goodbye and drive home. He knew it was illogical, he was going to see him again, but it didn’t make it much easier. It only made it worse that he knew his parents were going to be expecting him to talk about his weight. There was no way he was going to be able to convince him mother not to, she was just as stubborn as he was. He might be able to delay it though if he just played up the late night and the fact that there was alcohol. That’d probably afford him some peace for the rest of the day. At the very least it was worth a shot.

So when Mycroft arrived back at the house he entered the kitchen where his mother was making some tea, and took some painkillers as if he had a headache. He didn’t think that taking painkillers unnecessarily was a good thing to do, but it was paracetamol, it wasn’t addictive and the dose was low enough that it wasn’t going to harm him. It was just a useful illusion. And one that easily tricked his mother. Her questions quietened, shifting from who was there and how he found it, to things like did he drink responsibly and what time he got to sleep. Of course he played it up, suggesting that he’d drank a little too much and that he hadn’t slept. It was at times like these that he was thankful for his mother’s kindness and trust; she trusted him to be responsible so there was no telling off, just a reminder that she’d done similar things in her youth and a command to take a glass of water and get some rest. He probably should have felt guilty about manipulating her like that, tricking her, but he just couldn’t bring himself to be. He needed to avoid that conversation at all costs. Besides, it wasn’t as if it was going to negatively affect anyone if it was postponed.

The rest of the day was spent quietly in his room with minimal disturbances, he changed into some pyjamas and spent his time working through the remainder of his essays for Eton. None were particularly challenging, but they could be time consuming. It kept his mind occupied enough that he could work at them for hours, writing a few on the side despite not having being set to do. He was an excellent student, despite the fact that he clearly wasn’t engaged by lessons and he had a habit of correcting teachers when they were incredibly wrong. He supposed that they weren’t a fan of the extra marking, but he certainly made the school look good with his unbroken record of full marks. He wouldn’t go as far to say that he was the best mind in the school’s history, he didn’t have the full list of attendees since its establishment, but he was absolutely certain that he was the most intelligent student there for at least a generation. It was almost comical really, the smartest mind in Eton hiding from his parents in his room to avoid an awkward conversation. Well, intelligence didn’t always equal maturity.

 

***

As always the next morning Mycroft was the first to wake in the house. It was dark outside, another sign that winter had arrived. It could have been frightening. A large, old house filled with dark rooms and a cold chill creeping in from outside. It was the perfect setting for a ghost story. Who knew, perhaps the previous owners of the house had died in there, as was likely for an elderly man living on his own. No doubt for some the silence was nightmarish. Not for Mycroft. It was peaceful, undisturbed and comforting. He wasn’t one for fancies such as ghosts…not when he knew that the real nightmare was asleep down the hall, no doubt with the dog curled up at the bottom of his bed. He didn’t mind the dark, it was a natural human reaction to fear it, what you couldn’t see could harm you. But it was his home, and he knew for a fact that the security was of an incredibly high standard. There was nothing to fear. In fact he was so confident in that fact that he pulled on his dressing gown and headed downstairs without flicking on a light, God forbid it wakes someone else. He took extra care on the stairs, aware of the fact that someone of his stature wasn’t going to be as proficient at sneaking silently about the house.

The mornings were without a doubt Mycroft’s favourite time of day. Everyone was asleep, he didn’t have to worry about avoiding people. He could just sit in peace with a cup of tea and wait for himself to wake up properly as he read though the news. Despite the fact that he enjoyed that time of day and that he was up so early Mycroft didn’t wake up easily. It took a very long time to get a mind like his to stop processing things, to slow it enough for sleep to be a possibility. The same could be said for waking it up again. Usually it took a pot of tea and something sweet. The tea wasn’t an issue, the something sweet however was. Evidently his parents’ had taken it upon themselves to limit the things that could tempt him. There were no pastries, a very limited choice of preserves, but a large bowl of fruit sitting on the side which certainly hadn’t been there when he’d arrived at home. It wasn’t an unheard of thing for them to do, they’d repeated this behaviour every time he’d started a diet, they were trying to help, just this time they weren’t waiting for him to declare the diet first.

He just buttered himself some toast, flicking through the most recent news on his phone. Soon enough the house started to lighten up, the sound of someone stirring from upstairs began, and the caffeine in the tea – although less than in coffee – started to take some effect. It was more than likely his father, going to work early as always. Mycroft just nodded a greeting as the man entered the kitchen also in his dressing gown and poured himself a cup of still hot tea from the teapot. A tradition that they’d had for as far back as Mycroft cared to think. “Morning, Mycroft.” His father greeted as he took a seat, sipping at his own tea as he waited for his bread to toast. Again they found themselves in that comfortable silence, there was no need to talk, and one of the more beautiful things about the morning was that people very rarely instigated important conversations least it sour the rest of the day. That was certainly the case that morning, as even when his mother joined them she didn’t mention the fact that they needed to discuss his weight. It was a rare bit of peaceful family interactions. Of course, that couldn’t last. His father left the table to get ready for work, and to wake Sherlock up.

It took a while, but eventually a set of distinctive footsteps began to descended the stairs. How Sherlock could possibly make so much noise was beyond him. The younger Holmes entered the kitchen dressed in a bed sheet. That shouldn’t have been surprising to any of them. Their mother just sighed and tutted, although it was clear to anyone that cared to look that she was amused by the antic of her youngest. Sherlock didn’t say a word as he searched the bread bin and the cupboards for his breakfast. “Good morning Sherlock, I see John managed to get you home in one piece…tell me, do you think he’d be endeared or irritated by your hatred for appropriate clothing? It’s something that you should consider before progressing further in your relationship.” He teased lightly, a smirk gracing his lips. Sherlock probably wouldn’t connect the dots between John’s behaviour and the furthering of their relationship. Neither he nor Sherlock were particularly good at registering affection or desire when it was directed at them. With the stormy expression Sherlock directed at him though he clearly didn’t enjoy the statement.

“Evidently…I wouldn’t worry about what I’m wearing, brother _dear,_ don’t you have an appointment at the tailors today?” he asked, turning back to finding some breakfast. “While we’re on the topic, I don’t see how it’s fair that we all have to suffer because Mycroft’s a fat…” he said, clearly about to say something else when their mother cut in.

“Sherlock! That’s no way at all to talk to your brother! Apologise. Now.” She snapped, fixing Sherlock with a stern look. Mycroft just took a sip of his tea, no trace of the mirth left. Sherlock had meant what he’d said, he had a penchant for sweet things on a morning too, also in an attempt to kick start his mind. When there was no ‘temptation’ for Mycroft there was nothing for Sherlock to have either. He should have considered that before he teased him, it was at least partially his fault. It was also clear that apologising wasn’t something that Sherlock wanted to do. He’d do it though, if only to get their mother off his back.

“Alright alright… _apologies_ Mycroft, I didn’t mean it like that.” He said. There was no other way to interpret it though, it was an apology with absolutely no sincerity behind it. But it was enough to say that he’d apologised, and that was what counted. Mycroft just nodded once. It wasn’t an acceptance, just a sign that he’d heard the other speaking.

“Good. Thank you.” Their mother said. “And Mycroft you shouldn’t tease your brother, he can wear what he’d like at breakfast…so long as there’s no guests in the house.” She was quick to add, in case Sherlock decided to use her words against her at a later date. Sherlock eventually stuffed a handful of grapes into his mouth, clearly declaring it breakfast as he headed back upstairs to get ready for school. “You _do_ have an appointment at the tailors today though Mycie.” She said, even though she knew full well that he wouldn’t have forgotten. “I was thinking that you should go and see the rest of the family while you’re here, I’ll take you to see them and then we can go to the appointment.” She said innocently, as if the thought that he wouldn’t want anyone to be there at the tailors hadn’t even crossed her mind. It may have worked if he didn’t know she was so smart, and if she hadn’t been trying to slip it past Mycroft. Things like that were all too easy to pick up on.

“No.” he said simply. “If I have to visit the rest of the family I will once I’m settled back at home, and I can go to the tailors myself.” He said firmly. He knew full well that the tailors was going to be humiliating. He didn’t need his own mother to be a witness to that, especially after being paraded around the extended family currently residing in London. This time it was Mycroft that received a look from his mother, one that clearly showed that arguing wasn’t going to help.

“I’m taking you Mycroft, and that’s the end of it. I know you don’t want to visit the relatives, but it’s almost Christmas and they haven’t seen you for too long.” She said in a tone that ended the argument. “I know you don’t want me at the tailors, but I need to pick up some shirts for your father.” She said. “Now, go and get ready and we can get it over with.” There really was no point in arguing.

***

 

Five hours. The list of things that Mycroft could achieve in five hours was long enough that even the least environmental person would feel guilty printing it, but of course when you were being paraded around the extended family for three of those hours there wasn’t much opportunity to be productive. At the very least it was a good way of stretching his ability to use manners. Mycroft was considered by most to be the polite Holmes child, the one that obviously wasn’t enjoying himself, but still maintained a certain level of courtesy. Today that courtesy was being put to the test. As with most families the extended relatives only required the occasional visit before your duty as family members was completed. It seemed that everyone they were visiting today had last seen him near the end of his diet, which meant that it was three hours of poorly hidden shock and phrases such as ‘goodness you’ve changed’ and the obviously untruthful ‘you look wonderful darling’. Their shock was as subtle as a herd of neon pink elephants in Times Square. He despised it. Despised it with a passion. There wasn’t a single thing that he enjoyed about having to sit and endure lipstick stain after lipstick stain on his cheeks as his mother sat and happily discussed how cousin Sarah had done the family proud by getting into Cambridge to study Russian, or how it was such a shame about second uncle James’ roof being vandalised. There wasn’t a single piece of useful information, much less anything of interest. It was three hours of sitting rigidly on a seat listening to the small talk and counting the small awkward pauses when he was offered a biscuit, as if doing so was a crime. Of course he turned it down with an incredibly forced smile and a terse politeness that warned that he was fast growing tired of this socialisation.

Eventually though after several cups of tea that never had the correct tea to milk ratio, they left the last of the relatives house and drove to the tailors, which was an experience in itself. Never again was he going to allow his mother to go with him. It was unacceptable, humiliating, and more than a little degrading. The tailor – Andre – behaved how Mycroft expected, starting with a very loud, very dramatic gasp when he walked through the doors of the shop, followed shortly by his mother. It took ten minutes, but eventually Andre realised that saying anything more than was necessary to Mycroft was an incredibly poor idea, likely because of the ice cold glare that Mycroft shot him after a few particularly bold comments that the man made. The rest of the appointment passed in near silence. Never had Mycroft wanted the floor to swallow him more. No doubt Sherlock would provide some interesting things to distract him, and the way Mycroft was feeling currently he’d be happy to try them out. His mother collected the shirts for his father as she paid for the suits, shirts and trousers that were to be collected in a week. The only good thing about the entire situation was that he was going to have some new clothes more than the ones that he’d bought before going to Gregory’s. They had two shirts in the shop that were of a good size on him. At the very least they had those to show for the humiliation that was his morning.

In the car ride home his mother was silent. Perhaps she’d realised why her morning itinerary had been a poor idea. It was no hardship to see that she felt sorry for him, that she was upset about the tailors. Mycroft couldn’t help but be bitter about it, it wasn’t like she was the one that had to deal with it, and he’d told her that he didn’t want her there. Of course there was nothing that he – or his mother – could do to alter it now, she’d been there, and if it’d saddened her, she was going to have to deal with that on her own. He didn’t have anything that might be able to comfort her, because all he currently wanted to do was shower off his aunties perfumes and then go and meet Gregory when he finished school. The issue was that his mother wasn’t going to just let it go, she wasn’t like that. The events at the tailors were going to make her all the more adamant at discussing what was essentially the elephant in the room. And wasn’t that a fitting analogy. Mycroft could only hope that if he was out of the car and into his room fast enough she wouldn’t be able to say anything to worsen his day. Even if she meant well by it, as she so often did, it was more than likely that it was going to make his already vile day worse.

The car pulled up in the drive, and just as Mycroft was reaching for the handle his mother spoke. “Mycroft…I know you don’t want to hear it, but we’re having that discussion today whether you like it or not. I know you’ve been avoiding it, and I do understand why you don’t want to talk about it, but your father and I are worried about you, and we just want to help. ” she said quietly, voice soft like the tone she took when someone was sick or there was bad news. It was far less than reassuring. “So you can go and put your shirts away and do what you’d like for the time being, your father’s due back in an hour, we’re going to sit down and talk about it then.” She said, and then before Mycroft could say a word in protest she was out of the car and heading into the house, using the very technique that Mycroft had planned to use. He just sat for a moment and closed his eyes. Of course there was a part of him that understood why they were so insistent on talking about it, parents instinctively cared and worried about their children, this was simply an extension of that. Another part of him realised that it was better to get this over with, he was already having a bad day – to put it lightly – there was no point in souring another day when the tone of the day was already irreparably ruined.

Mycroft considered it for a moment before he climbed from the car, bag of new shirts in hand, and walked into the house. Even the dog seemed to realise that he was in no mood to be disturbed, because after poking his head around the door of the living room Redbeard just turned and left Mycroft to himself. A smart dog. He’d allow it that much. With the door closed behind him Mycroft headed up the stairs. A cigarette may have helped, but there was no way of smoking without his mother finding out, and that was something that had to be avoided at all costs. Even the thought of adding something like that to the day he was having already was enough to make his feel nauseous. So as much as it would help him, he didn’t entertain that thought for long, just walked into his room and spent his time trying to work out how he was going to respond to their questions. Surely it couldn’t be as difficult as the interviews he’d endured in Eton…although he tried valiantly he couldn’t quite convince himself of that. His parents were a far cry from the indifferent interviewers he’d seen before, and they weren’t trying to determine his suitability, they were trying to solve his weight issues as if it was a puzzle they could piece together and fix. If anything he wished them luck, he’d given it enough thought over the years to know that it wasn’t that simple. If only it were.

He wasn’t in his room for a particularly long time before he heard the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels of a car, followed shortly by the creak characteristic of the front right door on his father’s car. So it seemed the time of this talk was looming. Mycroft always prided himself on keeping a level head, remaining calm in the face of things that he didn’t want to do. But then he also prided himself on his privacy, keeping to himself and dealing with his own problems. It seemed that in this case the violation of one was disrupting the other. He could feel the tension building, the soft ache radiating from the muscles in his shoulders and the way that his breathing had altered unconsciously to shorter, more rapid breaths. It was a far cry from panic, but it was still uncomfortable. He tracked the sound of the car locking, the front door opening, and the excited yapping from the dog as his father placed his car keys in the drawer of the side table. Not long after that the office door opening…and then nothing.

Of course, the sounds downstairs hadn’t stopped, nor had Mycroft decided to stop listening to the movements downstairs, it was that his mother was no doubt recounting the day’s events in hushed tones. He hated to think of what she was telling him, perhaps she was focusing on the relatives, that’d be infinitesimally better than focusing on the events of the tailors. He didn’t waste time trying to hear more, if there was something said between his parents they knew better than to say it within earshot of Mycroft. He was curious, disliked not knowing exactly what had been said by whom and when. Of course by now his parents knew better than to do anything so obviously. Instead he leaned back in his desk chair, leaning his elbow on the armrest and resting his head on his hand as he waited. They wouldn’t postpone it for long now, they wouldn’t want to give him time to think of an excuse. It was better for Mycroft if it was over with and out of the way before Sherlock was home from school too. He counted the seconds in his head, fifty, one hundred, two hundred, two hundred and twenty…then a sound. A foot on the bottom step. Even that was enough to tell him that the talk between his parents was over, and that it was his father making his way carefully up the stairs. Wonderful, a mortifying talk to top of his already disgusting day.

Just what he needed.

He just sat frozen in place as he listened to the footsteps climbing the stairs, walking along the corridor and finally stopping at his door. There was nothing for a moment, and then the steady knock on the wood of his door, the knock his father’s signature, so different both in sound and pattern to his mothers, who always knocked in twos rather than the three solid knocks that his father used. Sherlock’s knock was personal too, namely he didn’t use one. Sherlock hadn’t developed his manners yet, nor did Mycroft expect that he ever would. But back to the issue at hand. Mycroft stood, walking over to the door and opening it with a sigh. “I assume mummy sent you to get me for that talk she’s been insisting on.” He said, crossing his arms over his chest. Passive aggression was a teenage trait wasn’t it? Surely after so many years of rising above such things he was entitled to a little time where he fit the stereotype. This seemed a good a time as any to use such a thing.

His father watched Mycroft for a moment, and he could swear that he was a little amused by Mycroft’s reaction, he’d just wisely decided that now wasn’t the time to comment on it. So apparently after a while things that average teenagers used became obsolete. Wonderful. “She did…you and I both know how stubborn she is, might as well let her have her way and move on.” He pointed out, kind eyes watching Mycroft as if he was trying to make sure that he was ready for this talk. Mycroft himself wasn’t so certain that he’d ever be ready for it. “It won’t take long, just a quick chat and that’ll be that.” He said. Which of course was true. Mycroft knew full well that his mother wasn’t going to give up anytime soon, she was as hard headed as he and Sherlock were. There was no escape from this, all he’d been doing was delaying it for as long as possible.

“Yes, alright…I’ll come down.” He said quietly after a long pause in which he’d ran through every single option he had to avoid this, even if it was just delaying it. The issue was every variation ended with a discussion occurring tomorrow which included a scolding for avoiding it. He knew they wanted to help…but could they not just bottle that intention until they forgot they ever had it? His father smiled at him warmly.

“Lovely, the kettle’s just boiled, there’s a pot of tea and some mugs in the living room.” He said before turning and walking down the stairs, pausing for a moment to listen and make sure that Mycroft was following. As much as he wished it was otherwise he was right behind his father as he walked down the stairs and directly into the living room, giving Mycroft no excuse for a detour except the blatant lie of needing the bathroom, and he wouldn’t steep so low just to buy himself a few extra minutes. Instead he followed into the living room, where his father had taken a seat on the sofa next to his mother who was sitting forward in the chair as if she thought that at any moment Mycroft was going to make a run for it. He couldn’t blame her, he was sorely tempted to as he carefully lowered himself into the armchair that had been positioned opposite them on the other side of the coffee table, giving this entire situation the feel of an interview. Or perhaps more fittingly an interrogation. Every move Mycroft made was intentional, done with a careful precision in order to hold him in the best light from his parents’ viewpoint, sitting so that the shadow of the chair’s arm fell over the swell of his stomach and hopefully minimised its prominence. The rigidly straight back was intended to help with that too.

Neither of his parents said anything as Mycroft poured himself a cup of tea, adding the milk that had so thoughtfully been poured into a small jug for this evidently very important event. He did notice that there was no sugar available. He could drink it without, but in times of stress or relatively high emotions he always liked to add one spoonful. His parents knew that. No doubt that was why they’d managed to prepare everything else so carefully, but not provide sugar. Mycroft’s eyes were firmly fixed on his tea while his parents eyes were fixed directly on him. He could see their reflection in the polished top of the coffee table. He took a sip of his tea – perfectly made with just the right amount of milk, though the absence of sugar did take from the overall cup – before he placed it down on the table and finally lifted his head with a soft exhale that could’ve been mistaken for sigh had his parents not been used to the small things like that which changed when Mycroft was placed in certain scenarios. He met his father’s eyes first, and then his mother’s. “Well, I believe we have some things to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then! That was it! Worth the wait? Probably not, but at least I finally have it up here. I had three thousand words of it all ready to go, but then my computer well and truly died on me and took the hard drive with it, so I'm so sorry about that delay. Don't worry though, I have the next chapter all planned out, so it should hopefully be up much sooner! And as for my story 'Absolutely Perfect' that hit 100 kudos...I really can't express how much it means to me, and as a small thank you to everyone who commented, read or left a kudos, there's a bonus chapter coming up some time soon, it's in the works as I'm uploading this. So thank you all so much for reading. If you have any questions for me or the boys please come and check out the blog over on tumblr: http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/ Any questions, thoughts, or just odd conversations are more than welcome. So until next time, have a good one!


	8. Tea and Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation has finally arrived. There's no way of putting it off anymore, and biting the bullet is the only option that Mycroft has left. Maybe it won't be as bad as he thought it would...or much more likely it's going to be as terrible as he imagines. Either way, there's no worming his way out of this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there guys! Alright, it's been over a month since I last posted, and I'm not going to bother with an excuse because this isn't the place to be sharing things like that, but just know there's a valid excuse and hopefully the next chapter won't take too long. And one more thing...One hundred kudos!!!! Oh My God!! Thank you so much! I know for some people it's not a lot, but it means a hell of a lot to me! This fic isn't always the easiest to write, but it really is worth it to know that so many people have not only read it, but enjoyed it. So thank you! Of course just like my other story a bonus chapter is in the oven to mark the occasion, but more on that at the bottom. So without further ado, here's the chapter!

Mycroft supposed that the entire arrangement of the living room had meant to be comforting, warming colours intended to help you relax after a difficult day. Colours that wouldn’t be overwhelming after a long day, but that could hold their own against the garishly bright lights of annual holidays. Soon enough his parents were going to insist on buying a tree that would’ve been much better off in the ground, covering it with overpriced LEDs, plastic balls and strange felt creatures that were intended to inspire the imaginations of young children. The warm red of the walls would provide a dark backdrop to allow the colours to shine, and the thick cream carpet was going to serve as a wonderful surface for poorly wrapped, predictable gifts. Until all of the needles fell off the tree, and once again the cleaning service would be called in to clear up after the ‘festive’ tree had met its demise and littered the floor with its leaves. It wasn’t that Mycroft had anything against the living room, it was an open room that he had many fond memories of, and the furniture was comfortable enough…he just didn’t see how a tree was meant to pay homage to a ‘real Christmas’ when the true intention had been lost under mountains of capitalistic greed eagerly swallowed by those dim-witted enough to enjoy it.

Unfortunately his parents were part of that statistic.

What was perhaps more unfortunate, was that Mycroft’s new admittedly scrooge-like train of thought had lasted for less than a second…meaning one of said dim-witted parents was going to answer his statement about having something to discuss. “We do, Mycie.” His mother said watching him with blue eyes that were filled with so much pity, so much concern for her eldest that Mycroft very nearly stood and ran out of the room. He forced his muscles to lock though, forced himself not to take his eyes from her. “Your father and I know that you don’t like talking about this type of thing, darling, but we’re worried about you.” She said softly, hand finding its way into her husband’s, as if this was hard for her, as if she could possibly understand how it felt to be sat in front of your parents because they thought you were too big, that they thought they had to tackle this with a serious conversation. It was mortifying.  “You were doing so well before you went back to school, sweetheart, we were so proud of you because we knew that it was anything but easy for you…we just want to know what changed to make you put all the weight back on again…did something happen?” She asked, fingers tightening slightly on her husband’s hand.

Mycroft didn’t miss a sing movement, a single blink that had been made by his parents, he refused to. It was so much easier to pay attention to what they were doing than listening to what his mother was saying. Mycroft stiffened momentarily at her words. ‘We _were_ so proud of you.’ A simple change of tense in a single word, yet it had so much power. “You were so proud of me.” He said, his tone not changing in the slightest, but the looks on his parents’ faces showed they knew what he was getting at, realising the mistake that had been made there. “Well, thank you, for being so proud of me, it’s such a terrible shame that I couldn’t keep you proud for longer. I can’t possibly imagine how it must feel to have a son that shames the Holmes family name with his size.” He said, and there, the chill of ice slipping into his tone. He knew that they hadn’t meant it like that, that it had been intended as praise for something that’d he’d so obviously struggled with for so long. That diet hadn’t been easy, he’d hated every single moment of it. It had made him miserable, the guilt when he slipped up souring entire days of his life. And his parents, like any other kind, loving parents would be, were proud of him for persevering and changing himself for the better. But sitting in that armchair opposite them, aware that neither of them - or any Holmes in the recent past - had struggled with their weight quite like he had, with the sinking feeling of absolute humiliation settling into the pit of his stomach…seeing reason when you felt like that was difficult.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean it like that Mycroft, you know I didn’t.” his mother said, the pity in her eyes only growing. “Of course we’re proud of you. We’ve always been proud of you and there’s nothing in the future that will stop us from being proud of you, because no matter what size you are, you’re still our son, and you’re still a wonderful, wildly intelligent young man. You and your brother make the Holmes name as great as it is, Mycroft, you’ve never shamed us, and you’ve never shamed yourself.” She said, her voice gradually becoming firmer as she spoke.

“Your mother’s right, Mycroft. We were proud of you then, we were proud of you before then, and we’re proud of you now…we’ve always tried to help you understand that while being health and happy is important, your weight isn’t going to change how we feel about you in the slightest. It’s not about how big you are, it’s about making sure that you are healthy, and that you’re comfortable enough in your skin to be who you are.” Hs father said, those kind grey eyes that were so similar to his own watching him not with pity, but with the assurance that he knew what he was talking about. “You can’t tell me that you haven’t changed the way you are because of your weight. When we dropped you off at Eton you were so much more confidant, you stood taller and you lifted your head because you were confidant, not because you thought it’d make people think you were. I can see the difference, Mycroft, I might not be as smart of the rest of you, but I did help raise you. I know when you’re not happy and confidant with who you are.”

 Mycroft finally ducked his eyes away from his parents at that, focus falling to the cup of tea on his side of the coffee table that he no longer felt like drinking. It was pathetic to feel as emotional as he did in that moment…but the honesty in his parent’s voices simultaneously filled him with guilt and flooded him with relief that he wasn’t a disappointment, that they still were proud of him despite his weight. Mycroft was more than aware of the fact that he always tried to stop those things from mattering, he tried to convince himself that his parents’ opinions were just the same as all the opinions of average people on the street that he ignored…but it wasn’t true. These were the people that had raised him. The people that had given their unusual son unconditional love and care, that had always been there for him…and they still were. They were the ones that had given him the tools to be who he was, and they were the ones that had always been that little bit more cautious and loving around him when he’d been insulted, or when he’d looked in the mirror with nothing but disdain for the round freckled face that had looked back at him.

Of course they knew that when he’d been thin he’d felt more confident, because it was then that he finally thought that he was worthy or being with Greg, that he was worth paying attention to. He’d wanted to keep his head up; he hadn’t minded people looking over at him when he answered questions in class because he knew that when they looked over they’d see someone that had control. It wasn’t that he felt that being fat made him worthless. He knew that he had the brightest, sharpest mind of anyone he’d come across, and he knew that no matter the size his body was just transport…but when he was big, it was like it lost some respect, that people were less willing to see past the transport to pay attention to what he was saying. When people looked now they saw the transport, and they thought they knew who he was because of that. Even with his parents love and support it didn’t change the fact that through their entire lives he and the rest of his generation were taught that thin was good, that you should be proud of yourself when you were thin and disgusted at yourself if you weren’t. It wasn’t like he could just ignore that. He felt it and he had to live with it.

His parents would love him and be proud of him no matter his size…but just because that was true, didn’t mean that Mycroft felt the same. The pride and love of parents was often a given. But the pride and love of oneself was hard-fought and anything but easy to achieve.

He didn’t speak for a while, and he parents didn’t force him to say anything, just gave him the time to collect his thoughts and think of a response. “I’m sorry, I know what you meant.” He said simply, shoulders deflating a little. “I will admit that it’s been a concern of mine, but one that’s now been rectified…thank you for the assurances, I appreciate it.” He said. Mycroft’s voice was quiet and tired sounding, which wasn’t that unexpected considering the day he’d had so far. That was as close as he could come to expressing how much it meant to him, how much he appreciated everything they did for him and their ability to love him regardless. They’d know though, that it meant so much because he’d acknowledge that he appreciated it. He looked back up at them, with another exhale, making sure that they did know, because it was important to him that they understood what hearing that meant to him. The gentle smile from his father and his mother’s slightly less tensed shoulders showed that they knew their message had gotten through to him.

“In answer to your initial question…nothing happened. There wasn’t a definite moment where I stopped dieting and watching what I ate, there wasn’t a sudden change it just…I let it slip.” He said honestly, because there was no alternative to the truth, there hadn’t been a day where he’d woken up and decided that he was just going to eat whatever he wanted, it’d just been gradual changes, shifts in what he ate occurring almost without notice. “School is fine, wonderful even, there’s certainly nothing for you to be concerned about when it comes to that, the other students don’t bother me, the classes provide additional work to keep me occupied…I don’t think there was anything that could have been changed that would have prevented me from letting it slip.” He said. Mycroft wasn’t being open, he wasn’t relaxing into this conversation and realising that it wasn’t as bad as he had expected, he was only saying what his parents would have asked if he hadn’t answered it first, it was a way of speeding the process up so he could finally be allowed to leave this cocktail of humiliation, concern and other troublesome emotions that Mycroft just didn’t want to be subjected to.

The issue was that quite clearly his parents didn’t believe that explanation. “It’s alright, Mycroft we know that this isn’t something you’re comfortable discussing, it’s just important that you know how we feel, and it’s important for us to understand this so that we can help.” His father said, accompanied by his mother’s nodding. At least the apology had been accepted, his somewhat simplified version of events regarding his weight though wasn’t as well received.

“That’s understandable darling, everyone puts a little weight back on after a diet…just this isn’t exactly a little now is it?” she asked softly. She was dancing around the topic. Mycroft could see just how careful she was being not to offend him, as if any mention of his size might set him off. He could understand why she did it, but he wasn’t ignorant of his size. It wasn’t like he was just a little chubby, in fact he thought he was past the bracket of chubby and onto further, less gentle adjectives. He knew it, knew that if his physician was to see him he’d be concerned, because no healthy seventeen-year-old was this big. Who was he kidding? People his size weren’t usually healthy. He wasn’t even trying to think about BMI because that would involve finding out his weight. He couldn’t be blamed for not wanting exact numbers to solidify his fears. “I understand that things have slipped, but there had to be more to it than that otherwise you wouldn’t be back at your current size so quickly.” His mother said softly, obviously trying to get him to explain properly, give a reason for why it’d slipped so much.

It would be over faster if he just explained, and he knew that lying wasn’t an option because despite being idiotic in some aspects, his parents were incredibly intelligent when it came to come aspects, and right now he didn’t trust himself to lie with enough conviction to make it believable. Mycroft fidgeted in his seat, again trying to sit in a positon that didn’t bring to light every curve and swell of his body. His parents didn’t need any more evidence to explain why this conversation was necessary, and Mycroft didn’t want to provide it. He looked down at his hands as if he was interested in his fingers, when if fact he didn’t like to see how even they were bigger, softer and less elegant than they had been before. You couldn’t look at his hands and think that they were skilled at the piano, or that those hands could type a thousand words in less than ten minutes. “I...I believe that it’s no secret that I have a tendency to gravitate towards food in emotional or stressful times. Being away from home proved to be more stressful than I had anticipated, and pairing that with the fact that when I say no one bothers me, I mean they don’t care about my actions in the slightest…there was nothing preventing me from returning my former eating pattern and compensating for the distance from home with my usual source of comfort.”

It wasn’t at all easy for Mycroft to admit that. He didn’t like to talk about the comfort eating, because not only did it force him to admit that he did in fact feel the effects of being away from him and the people he loved, but that despite knowing that it wasn’t good for him still insisted on using food as a comfort. It was humiliating to admit, and his parents weren’t even going to be surprised about it because they’d already seen it for themselves in the way that he’d always taken seconds when something was upsetting him. They knew, and being so obvious about something so private and embarrassing was something Mycroft was completely against. There was a moment of quiet understanding on his parents’ part. “So you were homesick.” His father supplied simply, voicing the no doubt collective thought of his parents.

“Yes, though I was trying to avoid calling it that for the sake of my pride.” Mycroft said. It was a common thing to be homesick, something that normal people faced and dealt with. But Mycroft was not a normal person. If he didn’t want something to affect him he could stop it. Aside of course from the very obvious exception that was his weight, and now also the fact that it bothered him to be away from home and Gregory for such a long period of time. “I feel like it’s worth mentioning that it’s only mild homesickness, I don’t wish to transfer a school closer to home, and I don’t feel like it is necessary for you to visit more. I’m more than capable of dealing with it like everyone else does.” He said. Because he was not leaving Eton. The education he had there was better than any of the local schools simply because the teachers already knew to provide him with more advanced work, by the time he could convince the staff in a new school to do the same it was probable that his time in the school have drawn to a close, making the entire pursuit worthless. He could deal with the fact that his family and his Gregory were so far away if it allowed his mind to be suitable occupied

There was another brief moment of contemplation from his parents, which Mycroft allowed because the more time they were sitting and thinking about it the less time he was expected to talk about it for, and despite the fact that he _was_ talking about it, he still wasn’t happy or comfortable doing so. He knew that the discomfort that he felt was futile, his parents had seen this before. This certainly wasn’t the first time that Mycroft had managed to lose weight, only to put it back on and have to start again. It shamed him to think that in his relatively short life he’d had to fight to avoid obesity no less than three times, and this time it felt like he was most likely going to have to claw himself out of that category, because he hasn’t yet started the diet that he knew he had to endure. It made him feel sick. This wasn’t what he wanted from his life. It was already a certainly in his mind that this wasn’t something that was going to be left in his adolescence, it wasn’t something that he was going to be able to forget, and he doubted that he was ever going to get over his habit of turning to food for comfort. It was shameful, in his mind, to be unable to resist something so simple that it felt like everyone else that he knew could, it was shameful to him that he couldn’t always find the motivation or the strength of will to stick to a diet, or to persuade himself to exercise.  He was trying to accept that he was always going to struggle with it…but it wasn’t what he wanted the rest of his life to be like, always dieting, always trying to resist things that should be so easy to put out of his mind.

“If you’re sure, Mycie, we don’t mind coming out to see you more often, maybe I could come out next term and you could show me around, or your father can come out and we can go for tea somewhere.” His mother suggested softly, there was clear guilt in her voice that she might have been able to prevent his weight from going up in the way that it had simply by visiting. But there was also honesty, she wanted to see him, it was no secret that she missed him while he was at school because every time he called home at least ten minutes of the conversation was his mother expressing how much she missed him. He didn’t believe that his absence at home went unnoticed.

“We’ll see Mummy, I’d be happy to see you, but there’d be no issue if you weren’t able to make it. As I’ve already told you, I am more than capable of dealing with it.” He told her, eyes narrowing slightly at her expression.

“If this is your way of dealing with it darling, then I think it might be best if we visited more.” She said, hand moving ever so subtly to gesture at him. So ‘ _this’_ was his overeating. “We just want to help you…is there anything we can do to help? We can speak to a dietician, or get you an appointment with the doctors if it would help, and you know I’d be happy to make you separate meals like last time if that’s what you want. ” she said softly, and Mycroft knew that she meant it. There hadn’t been a single complaint on his parents’ part on his last diet. They’d made sure there was always salad in the fridge, and if there was ever a dessert made for a special occasion it was ‘hidden’ well out of his way to try and make it less tempting for him. They did what they could to help…but they couldn’t help Mycroft to force himself onto the diet again. He dreaded it. It was only made worse by the fact that it was so soon to Christmas, and his mother made treats every year without fail over the holidays. He didn’t want his Christmas holidays to be spent worrying about what he should and shouldn’t be eating, but he couldn’t see a way out of it.

Mycroft just nodded once at that. He couldn’t argue against her point. “I need some time to consider my options and choose a course of action…when I do that if there’s anything you can assist with I’ll let you know.” He said simply, despite knowing he shouldn’t he was buying himself time before having to start a diet again. He was trying to reason that if he didn’t want to start dieting and put himself on one anyway he was only going to fail, and the failure itself was going to cause his weight to become more of an issue. It was best to wait until he was prepared to dedicate himself to it properly.

“If there’s anything you want to talk to us about Mycroft, or if you’d like to talk about anything to only one of us, we’d be more than happy to listen…this isn’t something that you should feel embarrassed about, many people struggle with the same thing. All we want to do is make sure you’re happy. That’s what’s important to us.” His father said, squeezing his wife’s hand gently, as he turned his eyes to her, and once again they managed to convey a message between them with no words. “Thank you, for talking to us Mycroft, we know that it wasn’t something you wanted to do, but it was important to us, and we really do appreciate it.” He said softly, which Mycroft took to be the end of this conversation. Or at least the end of this chapter in the conversation, there was no guarantee that they weren’t going to want to discuss it further. It could very well have been because they knew that there was only so much that Mycroft could handle, and he was very quickly approaching that limit.

He didn’t stand and bolt from the room as Sherlock might have. He simply nodded, standing slowly and automatically neatening his clothes. “I appreciate your concern and your willingness to help.” He said, and despite the fact that it sounded a little flat it was true, he hoped they’d recognise that. “I promised Gregory that I’d meet him once he’d finished school today, so I won’t be joining you for dinner. I will however be home before it’s too late, Gregory has school tomorrow…” he said, starting to walk from the living room before he paused in the doorway. “Thank you for caring.” He said quietly, this time it sounded as honest as it was, a very rare tone for Mycroft to use, but he did think that his parents needed to know that he appreciated what they did for him and the effort they went to in an attempt to make sure he was happy. “And you may want to remind Sherlock to wash his hands before dinner, I believe his latest experiment involves decomposing pieces of meat.” He said, as if he’d never said anything before it, and with that he moved from the doorway, and headed up to his room to collect his phone, wallet and other such necessities. He was going to be late, but at least he hadn’t promised to pick Gregory up from school. The apology that would require would take more energy to construct than Mycroft was capable of giving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then guys, here we are at the end of another chapter. As always I hope you enjoyed it, if there's anything you want to share please leave it in the comments, even if it's just a spelling mistake that you've spotted I'd love to know. As for the bonus chapters...The one for my other story, Absolutely Perfect, is already on the go, but alongside a new chapter of this fic there need to be a bonus here too. So what would you guys like? We could have a look into what the diet was like for Myc, or how he and Greg got together, hell, we could even do a chapter from Greg's point of view, maybe the one where he sees Mycroft for the first time? Let me know if you have an idea in the comments. And if there's anything you want to ask, suggest, or even just point out to me or anyone in the story http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/ is always open! Hopefully you'll be hearing from me again soon!


	9. Walking in circles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay on this. Needless to say, I've been incredibly busy, but I'm not giving up on this fic, I've got the next chapter planned out, and I haven't forgotten about the special. To kind of make up for the delay, this chapter is 5000 rather than my usual target of 4000 so...I hope you can forgive me! As always, if you spot a mistake let me know so I can fix it, and if you've got any ideas or questions, post it in the comments or come and ask the boys at the blog :) Happy reading!
> 
> I'd also like to add here that what happened with Eurus is canon here too, they bought Sherlock a dog afterwards to give him something to focus his thoughts on, thinking it might help. I'm happy to answer any questions on that too :)

It seemed to Mycroft that the conventional schooling system wasn’t at all beneficial to the students that endured it. Like every other student Mycroft had homework and assignments to do that took up some of his spare time, he attended taught lessons, study periods, and had access to a library and resources to further his independent learning…but he also had the benefit of enjoying longer holidays. When everything was added up the extra hours a day that he worked during the term accounted almost perfectly for the extra time he had over the holidays, yet the fact that he was given longer over the holidays was beneficial in allowing him to relax without having to worry about work, something that he was certain many students that attended public schools wouldn’t be able to do. Of course there was nothing that could be done. Not everyone could afford private education like his family could, and others – like Sherlock – would refuse to attend a private school even if they had the means to.

It wasn’t particularly an issue that concerned Mycroft, but it was certainly one that had caught his attention. Even if just for the few seconds that it took to assess the thought and the likelihood of being able to do anything at all to change the situation. Gregory and Sherlock were still at school, along with the majority of the British population of school age, the holidays still a week away for them. It was, however, finally the weekend, something that Sherlock was celebrating by switching flawlessly to a nocturnal schedule, and something that Gregory was celebrating through planning a trip out with Mycroft.

Despite the fact that Greg had schoolwork to be doing he and Mycroft had managed to spend a few hours with each other over the week, something that was certainly necessary for Mycroft after the talk with his parents a few days prior. They had been trying to let Mycroft deal with this, to allow him the freedom to make his own decision about dieting…but as more days passed without any sign of the diet being restarted they were beginning to grow anxious about it, starting to plate meals up before they were served to control his portion sizes, coming up with excuses that would prevent Sherlock from walking Redbeard, allowing the arduous chore to fall to Mycroft. Perhaps his parents though that they were being subtle. If that was the case, then they’d forgotten exactly who it was that they were trying to fool. Mycroft knew exactly what they were doing, knew that each and every hint and change brought him closer to a real intervention and another of those discussions…yet he’d gone to no clear effort to start dieting again. Mycroft was aware that he should have by now, that the it was only going to exacerbate the issue if he didn’t…but it was Christmas, and it was human nature to delay doing something that they knew they weren’t going to enjoy.

The very fact that his parents were already trying to do things to help, to change his habits for him was a sign that they cared deeply for him, and that they wanted him to be healthy...but it was when Greg suggested that they go for a walk that Mycroft realised that they weren’t the only ones intervening. Perhaps Sherlock had told Gregory about his parents’ actions against his weight, perhaps Greg just knew that it wasn’t going to be easy for Mycroft to get back into the good habits he’d worked so hard to stick to. Whatever it was, Greg had suggested that they should go for a walk together on the Saturday morning. Mycroft hadn’t denied Greg’s request, simply pointed out that there were other things that Greg would rather be doing, such as going to the cinema or finishing his Christmas shopping, but when the other had insisted he hadn’t argued. He wasn’t even certain that Gregory was aware of what he was doing by suggesting the walk, it could very well have been an unconscious decision, wanting to help and therefore unconsciously putting making sure Mycroft got some exercise over the things that he’d rather be doing. Gregory was a caring person, and Mycroft was lucky that he cared about him in particular…but sitting in his car with the dog in the passenger seat after having only an apple and a banana for breakfast, and Mycroft was really starting to wish that he wasn’t surrounded by people that cared.

It would be so much easier if none of them cared.

Mycroft was absolutely certain that the smell of dog was going to permeate the seats of his car, and he didn’t want to buy an air freshener because that would be too strong…so he drove with the windows open, something that Redbeard seemed to enjoy, sticking his head out of the window and letting his tongue loll out and flop unappealingly in the wind. Aside from drooling out of the window and barking whenever Mycroft used the indicator to signal that he was turning, the dog was well behaved, sitting calmly in the seat and not venturing from the spot. He was less of a distraction than Mycroft had thought he might be. Again, it allowed Mycroft a moment of reflection on the dog, he was a well behaved specimen that deserved the affection that it received from the other members of the Holmes family, and no doubt the affection that he would receive from Greg.

It was a familiar drive to the Lestrade household, one that Mycroft had driven many times and would – with any luck – continue driving in the future. He didn’t climb from the car when he pulled up outside Greg’s house, simply sent the other a quick text signalling that he was there. Greg’s family were kind and loving people, his absent father being the exception, but they could be somewhat overwhelming, and the last time Mycroft had seen them had been before he’d left for Eton and before he’d regained the weight. He wasn’t particularly prepared to be dealing with the surprise that morning. He received no response from Greg to suggest that he’d read the text, but Mycroft just waited. He knew Greg wouldn’t respond when he’d be coming outside in a moment. As usual Mycroft was right. The door to the house opened, and out stepped Gregory, shouting something over his shoulder which was no doubt a farewell to his family. From where he was standing Greg wasn’t going to have the best view of Mycroft, but Mycroft certainly had a good view of him.

It was true that as far as people went Mycroft wasn’t one to admire people, to find people attractive. Typically, he could look at someone and objectively declare whether or not they were attractive based of the opinion the majority of the population would agree with. Beauty was subjective, but there were some common criteria that most people adhered to. Mycroft had never been – and would never be – like the majority of the population. Yet with Greg the attraction he felt was very subjective. He looked at Greg as he walked down the path, and found himself admiring him, not for his kindness or his companionship, but for his appearance, something that he’d somewhat surprisingly missed while at Eton. Greg had a knack for dressing well. It was almost effortless, whatever he picked suited him, right down to the shabby combat boots and worn jeans. Mycroft knew for a fact that he looked just as good in a button down and slacks, though it proved difficult to get him in a tie. Mycroft was starting to think that it wasn’t the clothes that suited Greg, but that Greg suited any outfit he wanted to wear. Today it was the boots and the jeans, paired with a plain black t-shirt and jacket that couldn’t possibly be keeping the other warm enough. Mycroft adjusted the heating in the car accordingly.

Even the way Greg walked was attractive, long strides, relaxed and very much at ease with the way his body moved, possessing a grace that he’d earned through hours of training on the field. He was happy in his own skin and you could see it in the purposeful movements that he made, he didn’t have perfect posture, but that wasn’t because he was trying to hide himself, it was because he didn’t _need_ to stand perfectly straight, no matter how he held himself, he looked comfortable. Confidence even when it may not be usual to have it was appreciated by those around you. If you acted confident then any issues that you may want to hide from others were often overlooked, because people assumed if you were comfortable, then there wasn’t an issue. Mycroft wished he could do that. He faked his confidence in most areas, he forced himself to stand tall, to ignore the looks and keep his chin high, to answer questions in class knowing that it was going to cause a wave of gossip about him. He couldn’t allow how he felt to stop him. 

Greg moved closer to the car, ducking down a little to peer into the window of the passenger side before he reached for the door, eyes sparkling and a bright smile there to greet Mycroft. His teeth were perfect, ice-white, and yet that smile had so much more warmth than Mycroft had in his entire being. It was like the sun, looking at it for too long would hurt, but at the same time without it life became exceedingly difficult. It was a pathetic simile, he knew that, but it was the best fitting. The fact that he’d thought it at all was proof of that. The ice was melting again, soppy, poetic phrases escaping as it did. If Greg’s smile wasn’t so warm then perhaps Mycroft would manage not to think things like that. But then again he’d gone for so long without that smile that he was more than willing to tolerate his own pathetic thoughts if it allowed him to enjoy Greg.

The door opened and Greg slid into the car as Redbeard moved obediently into the back, folding his lean frame into the seat with the same grace as usual. “Hey Myc, thanks for picking me up.” Greg said, leaning over and planting a very quick peck on Mycroft’s cheek, a sly smile painted on his lips. That was acceptable, it wasn’t too much touching, no contact to the areas Mycroft had decided were out of bounds, and there was no one else there to witness it. Unlike Sally and Phillip, Mycroft wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection. Before Mycroft had the chance to respond Greg was twisting in his seat. “Readbeard! Who’s a good lad.” He said, stretching to reach into the back to pet the dog.

“Oh I see…” Mycroft said, watching the exchange with mock seriousness. He was very good at acting, the only hint of humour was the fact that his eyes were still warm, not cold and hard as they would be if he was serious. “The dog is addressed properly, and I still get ‘ _Myc’._ ” Mycroft said, putting a somewhat disgusted tone on the nickname that was honestly more genuine than it was faked. “Well, as you’ve so clearly chosen your favourite, you may sit in the back with the dog. I’m sure he will be pleased to entertain you.” He said, managing to keep a very serious voice on as he spoke. Greg clearly wasn’t buying it, the smile had quickly grown into a grin. Greg could read him far too well.

“Aww, I’m sorry _Mycroft…_ I didn’t want to tell you like this, but I’ve been using you for your brother’s dog this entire time. I was hoping you wouldn’t work it out.” He said, Greg on the other hand was finding it tough to keep a straight face, and instead was just outright grinning as he looked at Mycroft, settling into the seat comfortably and clicking his seatbelt into place.

Mycroft huffed at that, putting the car into gear before pulling away from Greg’s house. “I should have known. It was right under my nose this entire time.” Mycroft sighed, as if just mildly disappointed that he hadn’t seen it. “After all, Redbeard is a dog, it’s only right that a female of his species wants to be with him.” Mycroft said, only this time he slipped a little, lips curling up into a small smile at the corners. There was a moment of silence as Greg processed the information before he burst out laughing.

There is was, that loud, impossible to ignore and even harder not to smile at laugh that filled the car. It was loud, carefree and so achingly familiar that there was a dull ache in Mycroft’s chest when he heard it. Greg had his head tipped back, eyes sparkling, and Mycroft couldn’t help but save a snapshot of that moment as he glanced over at Greg quickly, never taking his eyes from the road for long. The laughing didn’t even subside for a few more moments, and when it did it was only so Greg could catch his breath, his eyes were on Mycroft now, hazel eyes bright with humour. “Mycroft Holmes…did you just call me a bitch?” He said before yet more laughing took over. Mycroft smiled fully then, a rare thing for him to do, more so recently than at any other time. But he was with Greg, and he felt safe there with him, like he could let a few of the guards he contracted down. Gregory was different, and as of yet he hadn’t commented on his weight. It was safe. With Greg Mycroft could really relax and not be the distant, reserved person that he was around most others.

“In not so little words…yes.” He said, that smile still on his lips. The relaxing was obvious, shoulders less tense, grip less harsh on the steering wheel. Greg would have noticed, Greg always noticed things like that. He was much more observant than he was given credit for.

“No one insults me quite like you do, Mr.Posh private school.” Greg teased. “I missed it.” That part was more sincere. Greg knew just as well as Mycroft did that there was nothing in the insults, it was a joke, and the fact that he was joking meant the last thing Mycroft wanted to do was insult Greg. “I wish more people saw your sense of humour, it’s really great, you know. Snappy.” Greg said. Few people knew he had a sense of humour. Mainly because his jokes could be so subtle and fast that they were hard to notice. Sherlock noticed them, but they didn’t have the same sense of humour. The jokes were for Mycroft, just because he couldn’t resist it. Everyone liked making little comments even if just to liven up a dull situation. And to Mycroft most situations were dull.

Again, Mycroft kept his eyes on the road as he drove, only letting his eyes flick to Greg occasionally. “As I missed having someone to detect them...though I’m sure you’ll have heard an insult or two without me there to provide them.” Mycroft knew how to get Greg to talk, and this time was no exception, he took the bait.

“Oh you have no idea Myc. Did I tell you about Kieran? Little shit. He’s got to be like, fifteen, but he struts around like he owns the place. It’s like he’s a Chihuahua that thinks he’s a bloody husky. So this kid comes up onto the football field, mid-practice, and you know what my coach is like, so you can imagine…”

***

It wasn’t long at all before they arrived at their location.

It was just a pity that their location was a carpark at the start of a ‘Family-friendly nature walk adventure!’ that they’d agreed wouldn’t be too terrible to walk. It wouldn’t be too difficult. He doubted Greg would even consider a little walk like this exercise. If it counted for anything it was a warm up. Redbeard seemed excited to be out of the car though, even if he was still attached to the lead for now. There must have been something about Mycroft’s reaction to the place that tipped Greg off that he wasn’t at all impressed. Greg stood off to the side holding the dog’s lead as Mycroft locked the car. “It’s not that bad, just a few miles, and it’s flat.” He said, like it wasn’t something that Mycroft would never even dream of doing if not pushed by his parents.

“Oh right of course. A few miles in a circle that will lead us precisely back to where we started a little older and a little more aware of the littering habits of the group of three, four…six teenagers that like to use this walk as a hideaway from parents. Sounds wonderful.” Mycroft said, seemingly without even glancing away from his car as he straightened his clothes and turned to Greg with a sigh. “What more could I possibly want from our time together?”

Greg just stood for a moment before he turned in a circle, trying to find where Mycroft had gotten his information from. Mycroft said nothing, just watched as the other tried to work it out for himself. “I don’t get it.” He said eventually. “And it’s not like it’s that bad. We’re still spending time with each other, we’re just…we’re just getting some fresh air while we’re at it.” He said, stuffing his hands – including the one holding the lead – into his pockets as he watched Mycroft. “No, don’t give me that look Mycroft. You agreed to this. It’s a walk, not cross country. Besides, out here Sherlock isn’t going to be eavesdropping. So, c’mon.” His tone shifted there, a little firmer. Greg wasn’t a pushover, he’d let Mycroft sulk and complain, but he wasn’t letting the other get out of it that easily. He started walking then, at a somewhat slower pace than his average, giving Mycroft the opportunity to catch up, to make sure he didn’t feel like they were going to be going too fast.

Mycroft made no move to follow him for a few seconds, waiting until the other had gone a few steps before he followed. He said nothing at all until he was beside him, and even then he waited a few more moments before speaking. “Beer cans in the bush…too many for one person, all from the same time period, in a ring with a circumference that would be at a good distance to fit six people so everyone in the ring is in earshot without raising voices. Who would drink cheap beer in the middle of nowhere?...Someone that doesn’t want people to know they’re drinking, or more specifically someone who doesn’t want to get in trouble for drinking. Underage. So they’re teenagers…that and they were here yesterday, it rained yesterday, you can see the footprints by the verge, not all of them, but there was a set of high heeled shoes, size five. Who would wear heels out here if not another stupid teenager vying to prove they can stomach a can of room temperature beer out in the cold and rain?” He pointed out flatly. Not happy being there, but not irritated enough to withhold the answer he knew Greg was waiting for. He _had_ agreed to going out with Greg, and he was getting to spend time with him. There wasn’t much sense in complaining.

Greg laughed a little at the explanation. “Oh right, circumference of a circle of litter…I should’ve worked that out myself.” He teased, reaching out and taking Mycroft’s hand gently as they walked. “Too smart for your own good.” Nothing else was said for a moment, both of them enjoying the quiet of their own footsteps and the dog’s excited breathing too much to ruin it. The hand holding was enough. They were together, they could spend their time together however they wanted, and if they were both happy with walking in silence for a bit then that was what they’d do.

They managed for quite some time before it was clear Greg was getting a little restless with the silence, unlike Mycroft he wasn’t so willing to go for hours without speaking. “Football.” Mycroft said, declaring the topic before trying to think of a suitable conversation starter. “I assume it’s…that your team are good at getting points?” he said, hesitating as he spoke, phrasing it more as a question because he certainly wasn’t confident in his knowledge on sports and the correct terminology to use for each of them. Greg of course knew what Mycroft was trying to say, and there was the added bonus that he was amused by it. He laughed at the question, but it wasn’t the same as in the car, there was an element of…insincerity to it, as if Greg wasn’t so willing to laugh about it as he seemed. Mycroft’s brain kicked into motion, trying to determine what it was about it before it came to a shuddering halt. It wasn’t funny because part of the reason Mycroft was as he was currently was because he had so little interest in sports and exercise. I must make Greg uncomfortable that he knew so little about it. That had to be why, didn’t it?

“You mean scoring goals Myc…yeah, yeah I guess we’re not doing too bad, we’re not losing all the matches anyway.” He said, it was more natural, but there was something there. Greg was uncomfortable. It was a reminder that they weren’t just on a leisurely stroll because they felt like it, it was to try and get Mycroft to exercise. “The coach is being a bit of a bastard really, but I think it’s just because things are heating up at school, exams and all that. It’s just hard to focus on training and keep your grades up, and the stress is getting to some of the lads. I’m alright, managing it all, but one of the guys has had to go up a new kit size already which is shi…” Greg paused suddenly, eyes widening and hand tightening on Mycroft’s as he realised what he’d said. “I didn’t mean it like that it’s not like it’s a bad thing, it happens, I mean, he’s not…it’s not.” Greg said before physically biting his tongue to stop himself from saying anything else. Mycroft would’ve seen that, but instead he was all of a sudden incredibly interested in analysing what he could from the soil with just the naked eye.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft.” Greg said, stopping walking and therefore stopping Mycroft and Redbeard too, the dog letting out a little whine at being stopped. “Hey, listen to me…Mycroft look at me, please?” he said, voice soft, concerned. Mycroft swallowed down the protest before he looked up at Greg, his walls waiting and ready to be slammed up at any command. He made eye contact though, and he held it. Mycroft was very much aware that Greg hadn’t intended anything, but it was a sudden reminder of his weight, a break in the illusion of normality he’d constructed on their short walk so far. Mycroft said nothing. “Right. What I meant was that it’s getting to people. School is stressful, it’s not always so easy to keep on top of things, and you’re still a person even if you’re smarter than all the staff at Eton put together. It’s just a bit of weight, not like it’s the end of the world, you’re still hot as hell to me…and with school, I mean, maybe I’m not…”

“Stop.” Mycroft said, cutting Greg off mid-sentence. He didn’t need to hear more, didn’t need to listen to Greg rambling some apology when he knew full well that he hadn’t meant it as an insult to his weight. “I understand, your apologies aren’t necessary and can we please just move the conversation on?” he asked, starting to walk again and giving Greg’s hand a little tug. For a moment Mycroft thought that Greg was a little upset at having been cut off mid-sentence, he didn’t follow or move to stay with the other, but Mycroft didn’t need to hear more. It was alright. “What are you doing for Christmas this year?” Mycroft asked, knowing just how much Greg loved the holiday. Immediately there was a beaming smile on Greg’s lips as he moved closer to Mycroft, kissing his cheek again as they walked which took some careful manoeuvring over the roots of a tree.

“Glad you asked Myc. I think Gran’s coming up for dinner. She’s a little lonely at the moment I think, her cat died a few weeks ago. So she keep coming over for dinner, I’m guessing she’s coming for Christmas too. My mum’s got all the plans ready for dinner and things.” Greg smiled. He spoke fondly of his mum. She was a wonderful woman, kind like her son, Mycroft was always welcomed warmly by her whenever he visited, and she’d happily commented about his weight just like everyone else before he’d left. No doubt Greg had told her about it by now.

Mycroft smiled a little at the enthusiasm. He wasn’t fond of Christmas himself, he wasn’t at all a religious person, and he detested holidays that were made by industry to draw in crowds of customers willing to pay money for something that would be half the price a few days after the holiday. He did enjoy some aspects, being at home, the food that was only available at that time of year…and yes he supposed family too. He’d always remember how Sherlock had tried to catch Santa, the fond memories that he had of spending the holiday at Musgrave Hall before the fire. The times where things had been much sweeter and less challenging than they were now. It was bittersweet, he supposed. “And your siblings, they’re excited too?”

“Course they are, can’t get the kids to shut up about it. It’s cute though really, mum’s been trying to keep them busy and stop them from opening the tins of sweets before Christmas eve, got a lot of Christmas cards…and…and things this year. So she’s happy.” He said, barely pausing for a moment’s breath before he was off talking again. “I mean, really we didn’t need to buy that many sweets, but it’s Christmas so we thought we may as well, you know? They were on special offer too so we could get a lot without having to worry about it for once, that was nice too.” Mycroft wondered for a brief moment why he’d chosen to focus on the sweets rather than the letters, surely Greg could understand that talking about the sweets was only making Mycroft less eager to start this diet. He wanted  nice Christmas, one where he didn’t have to worry about the sweets or how much he ate for his Christmas dinner. It would’ve been better, more sensitive of Greg, to talk about the cards. Yet he’d chosen to talk about sweets. It was out of the ordinary for Greg, but perhaps he just had something on his mind or he hadn’t even considered why he might not want to discuss sweets. He hoped for the second, at least that hinted at normalcy, as if there wasn’t an issue with his weight at all. He didn’t want Greg to be thinking about it.

“Yes I suppose that’s a reasonable argument, it’s Christmas, they were on special offer, I’m sure anyone would’ve bought the sweets.” He agreed quietly, unless of course you were Mycroft’s parents, they might buy a tin or two to try and get Sherlock to eat some and so that if they had guests over they could bring them out, but with Mycroft at home it wasn’t a good idea just to leave the sweets out. And so they wouldn’t buy them. Greg pulled his hand away from Mycroft’s and out of his grasp, prompting Mycroft to look over at the other with a questioning look. Why had he let go? Had Mycroft inadvertently said something that upset the other? Of course Greg noticed the look, but instead of telling Mycroft off for something or making him work out what he’d done, the other just laughed.

“Jesus Myc, I’m not letting go for long, you don’t need to give me that look, you’re not a kicked puppy.” Greg smiled, bending down and letting Redbeard of the lead. “Just thought the dog might want a little time to run on his own and I wanted to make sure we were far enough from a road.” He explained, stuffing the – now dogless- lead back into his pocket. He didn’t take Mycroft’s hand again though, just watched the dog run off and pressed himself against Mycroft’s side, probably hoping that it wasn’t going to be too close to the other. Mycroft didn’t push Greg away though he just sighed.

“I wasn’t giving you a kicked puppy look, I was just wondering what you were doing.” He mumbled, which of course only made Greg laugh.

“Oh sure, if that’s what you wanna tell yourself.” He teased as he stopped walking, swinging himself in front of Mycroft and going on his tiptoes a little so he was at a perfect height to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “You make very cute puppy eyes you know…but they’re not quite as cute as that pout.” He grinned. Mycroft took a moment to make sure his face was neutral, wiping any sign of a pout or a smile from his face.

“I’m not pouting, Gregory.” He said, there was no malice though, he couldn’t possibly be upset or angry at Greg when the other was right there in front of him, grinning like the beautiful idiot that he was.

Greg leaned in towards Mycroft, lips mere centimetres away from his. “Aww, but I like that pout…that’s alright, you’re cute enough without it.” It was whispered this time, as if Greg didn’t want to speak too loudly and startle him off. “Can I?” he asked softly.

Mycroft needed no explanation of what the other was asking permission for, he didn’t reply, just closed the last bit of distance between them and brought their lips together. It was gentle and Mycroft pulled back after a moment, leaving it short and sweet but ultimately knowing that it left them both wanting more. His eyes flicked over Greg, a slow smile spreading on his cheeks as he took in the other’s expression. “Now who’s pouting?” He teased.

“You bastard.” Greg huffed, leaning up and pulling Mycroft against him, cutting off Mycroft’s laugh in a crushing kiss that would no doubt leave them both gasping for air. Mycroft estimated it was going to add another four minutes to their walking time. But he really couldn’t bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! Another chapter in the bag, I really hope you enjoyed it, and I'll hopefully get another chapter done sooner rather than later - and yeah, I know I say that every time but I'll really try - and I'm always available to answer questions with the boys at http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/ Thanks so much for reading!


	10. Dinner date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Once again I'm so, so sorry for the delay, I've had a lot of not so good things going on and while they seem to be clearing up a little now it's been a little hard to get into the swing of things. I really hope you all forgive me for how late it is, but to make up for it this chapter is extra long for you guys! As always I live for comments, and I'm always open to questions at the tumblr blog that goes along with this fic (link will be in the notes at the end). Like I say every time, if you spot a mistake, let me know and I'll get to it. We're at chapter ten! Officially my longest fic ever! So if you've stuck around this long thank you so much! Without any more rambling, here's the chapter...I hope you enjoy!

Mycroft supposed that for the students still in school, the time was probably flying by. They had schedules to stick to, times to wake in the morning, work to complete, jobs to do before their holiday began. That meant that they were busy, and when things were busy the time ticked by seemingly faster than usual. It was easy to give your full focus to something, to select one thing that needed to be done at a time and work on that regardless of the time that passed. It was an effective and productive use of time. But for Mycroft the structure had dissolved to give way to the Christmas holiday. Time was passing slowly, he woke early each morning as he always did, he worked, tried to find something to engage his brain, found excuses to leave the room when his parents or Sherlock started shifting the topic towards weight, Sherlock with a certain amount of glee and his parents with concern. He found ways to distract himself over dinner so that he always left something on his plate and he never snacked in view of the others in his family.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t doing it though. It was incredibly difficult to diet at the best of times, but when it was Christmas, when wherever you went was promoting the season of excess everything, from cheer, songs and of course, food…it was hard to stay out of temptation. Even Mycroft found himself buying stupid gingerbread biscuits shaped like snowmen, or cupcakes fashioned to look like Santa Claus. The worst part was that hardly anyone thought of it. Out in public it was a common thing to buy novelty shaped treats at Christmas. It meant that there were much fewer disapproving looks than usual because it was almost Christmas. At home it was different, Sherlock would happily announce what Mycroft had managed to get his hands on over dinner if there was even the slightest trace of him doing so. And of course his parents believed Sherlock, because it was exactly what they knew Mycroft would do. There was no one at home to monitor him and so there was no one to stop him.

His parents were growing increasingly concerned as they days ticked by and Mycroft wasn’t doing anything to start the diet, the walk with Greg a few days ago had helped ease their worry slightly, but that afternoon when Sherlock strode into the house, swung his school bag onto the hallway floor and announced in front of Mycroft and both their parents that ‘Fatty had two mince pies with his tea before you got home’...well, Mycroft was expecting another talk with his parents. Of course he was livid with Sherlock, standing and leaving the room without a word, leaving with the calls of his parents asking him to stay before starting to reprimand Sherlock on his manners. As luck would have it, he already had other arrangements for dinner, so suffering through an excruciatingly awkward and tense dinner with his family wasn’t necessary.

Greg’s mum had invited Mycroft over to join them for dinner, and although he was apprehensive about letting his mother see him the way he was now, he would much prefer that to dining with Sherlock and his bitter comments about Mycroft’s eating habits. He would be leaving soon, Gregory had football practice after school, Mycroft was aiming to arrive at the Lestrade household soon after Greg had arrived, he didn’t want to face the other’s family without Greg there. It was a large family, Greg had an older sister, followed by two younger brothers and two younger sisters. The eldest had left home for university meaning that Greg was often the one to look after his four younger siblings when his mother was at work. Mycroft understood how difficult it was just to look after one brother, he wasn’t quite sure how Greg did it without simply calling for a babysitter. Of course, he knew that calling for a babysitter wasn’t an option; they couldn’t afford to. It wasn’t an easy situation, but as far as Mycroft could tell Greg was wonderful at watching his siblings.

Entering the house without Greg to provide a buffer would mean an onslaught of young children, none of which Mycroft was prepared to deal with. And so he hid in his room, very carefully listening out to ensure that his parents weren’t coming upstairs to talk and counted down the moments until he could leave. Time may have been racing for the students at school, but in the two hours he was hiding in his room it crawled by at a snail’s pace

***

Having discovered his inability to take the stairs silently within the first forty-eight hours of arriving at home, Mycroft decided that the best way to leave the house before his parents could stop him was to exit swiftly. Of course, that was also difficult, he was never fast, even when he was exercising and in better shape speed was never his forte. It was the best option in this scenario, however, and so after collecting his things and checking his outfit in the mirror a final time, Mycroft moved down the stairs as quickly as possible, disregarding the sound and quick walked to the front door, calling out a goodbye before he shut it behind him. No one called out in time to stop him, and so before long he was in his car and driving towards Gregory’s house again, back on the familiar roads and relieved by the fact that there wasn’t going to be yet another painful conversation with his family. Of course that didn’t mean that he was stress free, not in the slightest. He still had to see Greg’s family for the first time since the weight had come back onto his frame, he wasn’t sure how many more surprised reactions he could take.

However, seeing Greg’s family had to be the better alternative to going home and having this conversation, and so he pulled up outside Greg’s house, texting the other to inform him that he’d arrived, before he stepped out of the car and straightened his clothes. No one – aside from perhaps Sherlock – would’ve noticed that as he walked towards the house his stride changed, going from his usual long strides that accompanied long legs to a shorter stride and a slower procession to the door. It wasn’t unintentional. The more time he gave himself to get to the door the more time he had to adjust, pulling his shoulders in adjusting his posture and lifting his chin a little to try and mask the other changes. It wouldn’t have been noticeable anyway, but he theorised that by holding his chin high it would draw attention away from his body. Perhaps it would’ve worked if it was only a few pounds that he was trying to hide. There was no way to hide this.

Despite having texted Greg before climbing from the car, the door didn’t open before Mycroft reached it. Maybe he hadn’t read the text. At the best of times Mycroft hated entering the house without Gregory there as a buffer, someone to ease the process from calm to the storm of children and noise onside the house. Not to mention control his mother’s coddling a little, no matter how many times she was told that Mycroft didn’t like to be touched, he was still greeted with a hug. This was going to be no different. Of course just because Greg hadn’t arrived it didn’t mean that Mycroft was just going to stand at the door and wait, it was getting cold standing without moving. So Mycroft knocked on the door, a simple three knock declaration of his arrival. It took a moment before he heard footsteps on the other side, too light to be Greg’s mother but not Greg, it wasn’t the right stride. He checked his distance from the door, careful that he was positioned well enough away that he’d maintain his personal space when the door opened….and it opened to reveal Greg’s older sibling and the eldest Lestrade child, Florence.

As always there was that moment. That pregnant pause where the other battled surprise to try and keep it off her facial features. She didn’t do as poorly as some people, but the image was still clearly there, that shock, probably wondering what had happened, how something had gone wrong enough for this to happen so quickly. Because this wouldn’t have happened if everything was fine. Mycroft was aware that it wasn’t something that would usually happen, but nothing had gone too terribly wrong. His weight was a slippery slope, a few pounds very easily let to more, a few changes to diet could lead to a compete dissolution of the entire health conscious lifestyle that he had been trying to maintain. “Mycroft it’s…it’s good to see you.” Florence said, still battling with herself, no doubt tempted to say something along the lines of ‘Oh my God, what happened to you?’ He was well accustomed to how the Lestrade family relayed surprise. “Uhm…come on in, I’ll get Greg.” She told him, stepping aside a little to let him past before looking at him again and taking a subtle step further back to make sure there was actually enough room for him.

Of course Mycroft saw her action, and he understood it was one from kindness, trying to be considerate and avoid a potentially awkward situation of Mycroft having to ask her to step back further. He entered the house, toeing off his shoes at the door as he always did. Already the house was loud, he could hear children shouting, playing, a muffled conversation in lower, more mature tones. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Florence, I take it you’re home for the holidays?” He asked, of course Mycroft hated small talk, but similarly it was so much easier to deal with seeing people at the moment when they were distracted by idle conversation, it meant it was easier for them to pretend they weren’t staring at him and his new weight.

“Yeah, home for Christmas and New years, got exams starting when I go back so trying to do revision. Not so easy with the little ones wanting to play…but has to be done, right?” She said walking towards the kitchen, and in the direction of the lower tones. Mycroft could begin to distinguish them as they approached, simply responding to Florence with a hum. Two female tones, Greg’s mother and another, older one, his grandmother, and then of course Greg himself, joining in occasionally, his voice louder than usual, likely to compensate for his grandmother’s fading hearing. Once they were close enough Florence clearly decided it was time to let them know he’d arrived. “Mum, Mycroft’s here.” Her voice was loud, extending the vowels to give the overall call a whining sound, much like he’d expect from Greg’s younger siblings when asking for something. “Greg.” She then called.

It was almost amusing hearing Greg and his mother racing to get from the kitchen and into the hallway. Considering there was no sound of a whispered conversation he had to assume the necessary conversation about his weight had already occurred. It was Greg’s mum that was the first out into the hall. She was a short woman, hair already greying despite the fact she was only in her early forties. She was an incredibly hard working woman, spent all her time working a job whenever she could find one, and the rest looking after her family. Unlike most people she didn’t even hesitate when she saw him, further confirming that she’d been warned. Instead she just wrapped her arms around Mycroft as far as she could, giving him a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you Mycroft!” she said, and Mycroft could hear how genuine she was being. Greg came from the kitchen only seconds later, grinning at Mycroft like the smug arse he was.

“It’s a pleasure to see you too, Ms.Lestrade.” He told her, very carefully returning the hug, even if he didn’t like it would’ve been incredibly rude not to return it. So he did. He was very conscious of her arms around him, and so when he deemed that he’d let it go on for long enough he took a careful step back out of reach of her arms. It was an incredibly subtle movement, one that he was certain no one else would pick up on, but it was executed perfectly so if she did decide that she was going to touch him again at least he’d see her move forward and be able to prepare for the contact. Florence seemed to have grown bored of the display as she headed upstairs, but Mycroft hardly minded, he wasn’t fond of being observed anyway.

“Can’t believe you beat me mum, I think pushing your kid out of the way is a foul move.” He said, though even without looking Mycroft knew Greg had that mischievous smile on his face, the one where he was teasing and making a drama out of things.

“Oh sush you, that was completely fair, you’ve seen Mycroft already.” His mother waved him off, looking back at Mycroft with a smile. “You’re just in time Mycroft, dinner’s in twenty minutes…oh and my mum’s excited to meet you, wants to know all about the young gentleman that’s been charming her grandson.” She smiled, eyes glittering in the same way that Greg’s did when he was happy about something. It always amazed Mycroft how welcoming Greg’s family was. He was by no means someone that many families would be happy to welcome and not least because of his weight. Mycroft was very much aware that when it came to people he wasn’t the best person to consult. He could read people like a book, see what they were feeling, things they had done or were planning to do. He could see so much about people…but he was rude and short with them, he had manners though only used them with people he liked. Reading people was the easy part, learning to deal with them, to cope with the stupidity, that was the difficult part.

It seemed like despite all of that though Greg’s family was willing to overlook it. He supposed that it did help that he put in as much effort as possible with being polite. He just didn’t want to cause problems by making Greg’s family dislike him. “Well, I hope I can live up to her expectations.” He said.

“Don’t you worry about it love.” She said. “You’re bound to impress her with your manners…Greg go and introduce him please, I’ll go hang some washing out.” She smiled, slipping past Mycroft to get to the utility room. “Oh and keep an eye on the pans for me boys, you’ll never get my mother to help with the dinner, she thinks she’s bloody royalty here…” She muttered as she slipped into the room and out of earshot, more than likely still grumbling to herself. Mycroft arched an eyebrow at Greg.

“How long has your grandmother been here, exactly? Two days or three?” He asked. Of course by now Greg was used to his deductions, he didn’t even blink just smiled a little.

“Two. How’d you know?” He asked, of course he hadn’t told Mycroft, there wasn’t a need to, it wasn’t like it was bothering Mycroft that she was there and he hardly needed to know who was staying.

Mycroft nodded at the confirmation. “Just your mother’s reaction. Hosting a guest is somewhat exciting the first day, attempting to impress them and what not, by the second or third day – particularly when the guest is family – it begins to fade and the overarching question is not ‘will they like this’, but rather ‘when will they go’. It’s not the same every time of course, it really does depend on the people involved and relations. I know your mother well enough and I know the guest is your grandmother. It’s hardly difficult.” He said, gesturing for Greg to lead the way. "It's worth mentioning, I didn't mean it like that is an indication of dislike or any negative emotions, it's simply a temporary effect of having a guest."

Instead of heading to the kitchen though Greg was still just looking at Mycroft, crooked smile on his lips. “I hate it when you make it sound so obvious.” He said, but there was no malice or hate in his tone. Greg stepped closer to Mycroft, wrapping his arms around the other’s neck and kissing him. Mycroft was very quick to respond, but rather than pulling away he wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist and kissed him back, letting his eyes close. He pulled back before long though, not wanting to be caught kissing in the middle of the hallway.

Their lips were still so close, and it was taking effort on both parts not to just resume. “We need to watch the pans.” He reminded him with a very gentle sigh, not wanting to move away from Greg but knowing he had to. Greg’s returning sigh was much louder and more dramatic. He gave him a quick peck before pulling back and taking Mycroft’s hand instead.

“Come on then. I’ll introduce you to gran.” He said, starting towards the kitchen and quite correctly assuming that Mycroft was following. The kitchen wasn’t at all big, but it was modern enough and had just enough space to fit a small square table. They didn’t eat more than breakfast in there, and having stayed over to witness it Mycroft knew that the children were never up to eat at the same time so no bigger table was necessary. Usually the table was covered in cups and odd things that people had set down there, but today it had been cleared, and in their place was a fresh cup of tea, a book, and an elderly woman sitting with her back to the oven and facing the door a book in her hand. Of course it hardly took Mycroft a moment to asses the room.

The pans seemed to be fine on the oven, not bubbling over and all were steaming so there was no shortage of water. The woman would’ve been easy to identify even had he not been informed of the relation. It seemed the genes were strong in that side of the family, she looked very similar to Greg’s mother, only her hair was completely grey and pulled back into a bun. She was obviously over seventy, face lined with wrinkles, a smoker – nicotine stains on her fingers and the distinctive smokers lines around her lips – with two cats, one white, one ginger…no, tortoise shell. So at least one cat was a female. She was a widow, long retired and judging from the white dust on her shoes was currently having work done on her house. So that explained why she was there.  “Gran, this is my boyfriend, Mycroft, Mycroft, this is my Gran.” Greg said with a smile, heading over to check the pans. Mycroft knew there was no need to, but obviously Greg hadn’t observed them properly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mycroft said politely, stepping forward and offering his hand to the woman. Despite what Mycroft may have felt about contact, it was truly necessary from time to time.

Greg’s grandmother looked up, and there was a hint of surprise there when she did. Not that she’d seen Mycroft before, but no doubt she’d been expecting someone much more athletic considering Greg’s hobbies. “Mycroft…that’s an unusual name isn’t it?” She asked. Mycroft was hardly surprised, it was what most people jumped to when they met him. Still, she took Mycroft’s hand and shook it firmly, releasing it once she had and allowing Mycroft to withdraw his hand.

“Yes, it is. It’s a family name.” He explained as always, there wasn’t much else he could say about it. Greg jumped up on the counter then, sitting and watching the two of them.

“Yes it must be…so Mycroft, I’ve heard you go to Eton. Are you enjoying school?” Of course Mycroft’s attention never wavered, he was constantly picking up little hints, deciphering her with everything she said and did.

“I do. Yes I quite enjoy it. Though I suppose like any student I’m glad to be off for the holidays.” He said with a slight, tight smile. Greg must’ve decided to step in there, knowing that Mycroft really did detest small talk.

He jumped down, checking on the pans and bringing down the temperatures. “Myc’s at the top of all his classes. Dead brainy this one.” Greg said, flashing Mycroft a grin. “I’d say this is all ready.” He hummed, more to himself.

His grandmother looked over Mycroft with familiar brown eyes, almost with a new interest. “Well, at least someone’s going to have decent conversation over the table, not about video games or whatever it is all you kids are interested in now.” She huffed, putting her bookmark at her page standing up. “I’ll go get Claire. You boys be good and set the table.” She ordered them as she left the room to find Greg’s mum. Mycroft’s eyes followed her out.

“Well, she’s not particularly what I expected.” He noted, but she hadn’t been bad either. He collected some plates, leaving Greg to get the cutlery and glasses – plastic cups for the little ones – and headed to the dining room. It was also small and cramped, fitting a table that was a little too big for the room…but it did need to be a big table to fit everyone around.

They were relatively quiet as they set the table, Greg singing a song under his breath. They heard his mother calling for everyone to come downstairs and then the thundering of footsteps down the stairs and through the hall, everyone obviously hungry. The room burst into chaos as people found where they were going to sit and the food was brought in by those old enough to carry it. It took some time for everyone to settle and for food to be dished out. Mycroft ended up sitting beside Greg and opposite Greg’s grandmother who was in charge of the mashed potato. “It’s nice to see a boy with a good appetite.” She said, spooning a mountain of mashed potato onto Mycroft’s plate. Mycroft barely had time to react before Greg and his mother were defending him.

“Mum!”

“Gran!” They said in union, all the people above the age of thirteen on the table looking at Mycroft, who just cleared his throat and passed the bowl of broccoli along to Greg.

“No, it’s alright.” He said quietly, hands retreating to his lap. He refused to make a big deal of this, it was already bad enough as it was. He looked over at Greg’s grandmother, waiting for everyone to start eating, but it seemed they were all still frozen in place. “It must be convenient living so close by.” He said to her, if they weren’t going to start eating, then he was at the very least going to move the conversation on, prove that he wasn’t that affected by her words. She hadn’t known about how tender a subject that would be for Mycroft considering they’d never met. He was more than capable of dealing with it. Greg’s grandmother looked a little confused, eyes shooting to Greg.

“You told him where I live?” She asked him. Greg smirked, knowing where this was going already, as planned he relaxed a little, dropping his defences.

“Nope. Never told him a word.” He said, picking up his knife and fork and spearing a slice of carrot. “Explain how you know then.” He mumbled. Of course he put the carrot in his mouth before he decided to speak to Mycroft, so he thought the eye roll was necessary.  

Mycroft nodded, eyes flicking back to Greg’s grandmother. “You’ve been here for two days now, and I assume you’re staying for at least a few days longer because you have shoes at the front door along with three scarves, all of which have your perfume on. If you were leaving today or tomorrow you would’ve started collecting them together already, you’re a very organised person, I know because I watched you make sure your bookmark was perfectly parallel to the spine of the book…you wouldn’t take the time to do that if you were disorganised.” He said. “So you’ve been staying here for a few days now, planning on staying for longer…probably because of the work you’re having done on your house, nothing overly disruptive considering your cats are still both there, so it’s habitable for them but not you. Probably work on the kitchen so you needed to switch the gas off. Easy to tell, there’s cat hair on your clothes, no cats here and white residue on your shoes from going home to feed them and stepping on the dust from plaster that has been removed from the walls.” He reeled.

“Of course, none of that tells me you live close on its own, however you make the trip to feed the cats everyday rather than bring them here and despite staying for more than a few days none of your clothes have creases which would indicate they’ve been in a suit case or travel bag, and you haven’t been here for long enough to have washed and ironed the clothes. So clearly you’ve been travelling home on a regular basis to feed the cats and bring clothes over so you would’ve need to pack a case. All of that indicates that getting home and back here is convenient, we’re in London getting anywhere quickly multiple times a day is never convenient, so you live close enough that you don’t have to deal with main roads or traffic.” He said, enjoying the shocked look on her face and the quiet around the table once he’d spoken. “So. As I said, it must be convenient living so close by.” He repeated, not smiling or smirking, just starting with his meal.

Greg was the one to break the silence. “Told you he was smart.” He said and Mycroft didn’t need to look up to know that he was smirking.

 

***

Dinner passed rather easily after that, with Mycroft clearing his plate and having seconds of dessert. The first part was because he had been hungry, the desert was because Greg’s mother had made his favourite, and last time he’d been over and she’d made it he’d been unable to have any because of his diet. Perhaps he was overcompensating a little. Still. He enjoyed the dessert at the time, and only started regretting it when he was sitting on the sofa with Greg and watching some film involving a film with talking animals and a spider spelling words out of its web. Greg’s siblings had insisted, and Mycroft was more interested in watching Greg than the film. Or at least that was what he was doing until Greg’s youngest sibling Ella – who was only four, she hadn’t started school yet – climbed up between Greg and Mycroft on the sofa, making Greg move along a little as Mycroft was settled on the side by the arm rest. She curled up between them wedging herself in. She was quiet for a moment, probably falling asleep as it was getting late for her, almost eight o’clock.  She did speak after a moment, shuffling a little bit more before she spoke. “Myc’s soft.” She said, voice quiet and mumbled, like she really was falling asleep. “Squidgy.” That was accompanied by a nudge as she curled up into Mycroft a little more.

Of course Mycroft did his best not to freeze. She meant it perfectly innocently, she had no concept that it wouldn’t be a good thing to say she was just noting something that she had noticed and was taking advantage of it. Greg paused for a moment too, and Mycroft could feel his eyes on him. “Ellie, that’s not a very nice thing to say.” He said gently. Of course she wouldn’t understand that. “Some people don’t like being called soft, it can hurt their feelings.” He explained as the little face turned to Greg questioningly.

“It’s okay, Gregory, I don’t mind.” Mycroft lied, he didn’t want to upset the little one when she had said nothing that she knew to be inappropriate. “It’s not incorrect.” The silence that followed was uncomfortable – for Greg and Mycroft anyway – but it soon faded as the film ended and the little ones went up to bed, Mycroft having to hug each of them as it was Lestrade custom by now to hug Mycroft before bed, he was a familiar guest, someone they were used to having there when he was off school.  Mycroft and Greg stayed where they were for a while longer, Greg watching a movie and resting his head in Mycroft’s lap, just allowing Mycroft to card his fingers through his hair as they spoke. It wasn’t about anything interesting, complaining about Sally and Phillip, talking about Anthea’s recent boyfriend, Dimmock’s latest crush…nothing of importance, just the little things going on in his life. Mycroft listened countering stories of Eton and the affairs he’d picked up on between the teachers and whatnot, aiming – and often succeeding – to make Greg laugh.

He didn’t realise quite how much time they spent like that until he noticed that his fingers were numb and the film had played through to the home screen. “I think we should probably be going to bed, Gregory.” He said softly, tracing around all of Greg’s features. He took the sleepy hum from Greg to be an agreement. “You’re going to need to sit up so I can stand.” He whispered.

Greg’s eyes flicked open at that, eyes searching Mycroft’s before he groaned and sat up, pausing half way up to kiss Mycroft’s cheek. “You left those pyjamas here, right?” he asked as he stood.

“Yes I did, I thought it would be best to leave them just in case.” He said, pushing himself up off the sofa with a huff. “You’ve probably put them in your drawers.” He told him. Greg shrugged, mumbling something about having ‘no bloody clue’ where anything was in his drawers as he left the room and practically bolted upstairs. Not that he would ever need to go any slower. Mycroft took his time climbing them, and even then he was still a little out of breath when he reached the top, enough that he couldn’t control it or hide it. He didn’t need showing to Greg’s room, so he headed straight there and sat on the bottom of Greg’s bed, watching the other change as he caught his breath. Careful to remain quiet as one of Greg’s younger brothers  -Edward who was fifteen- shared the room too and he didn’t want to wake him

“Thought I’d lost you there Myc.” Greg teased on a whisper, pulling of his shirt and wiggling out of his trousers without undoing the button on them. He clearly wasn’t bothered by the audience, because he came over to Mycroft and kissed him, still just in his boxers and socks. It was a long kiss, his lips moving against Mycroft’s teeth gently grazing his lips as he wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft tilted his head back to make the kiss easier, fingers trailing along Greg’s chest, feeling the taut muscles shifting under his skin, how sturdy and solid he was. He could feel the groves of his abdominal muscles, the heat radiating from his skin. When Greg pulled back Mycroft was out of breath again, and Greg had that cheeky smile of his back in place. “Couldn’t help it.” He teased him quietly, moving to find some pyjamas and giving Mycroft the perfect opportunity to admire him. Of course nothing more was going to happen, that kiss was right on the boundary of what Mycroft would allow while anyone else was there, even if they were fast asleep.

Greg had the perfect body. His skin was flawless, tanned and unblemished, there was no denying that he spent time playing sports, you could see how toned he was, the curves of muscles in his arms, strong legs and a well defined abdomen, including a six pack and a defined Apollo’s belt. Coupling that with his perfect smile and warm eyes, and Greg could…no, Greg _was_  the most attractive person that Mycroft knew, the most attractive person in either of their schools. And he had such a loving, kind, funny and all around wonderful personality that Mycroft for all his intellect didn’t know why Greg was even interested in him at all.

Greg obviously had no idea what was running through Mycroft’s head, just pulled on some pyjama bottoms and threw over the pyjamas for Mycroft. “Go put them on, you know where the bathroom is.” He whispered. Mycroft nodded wordlessly, taking the clothes from where they’d landed beside him and pushing himself up from the bed again. He paused on his way out, an envelope on the desk catching his attention.

“That’s your father’s handwriting.” He said, eyes flicking over to Greg to gauge a reaction. The other paused for a moment, tensing up as he nodded.

“Yeah I know. I’ve read it, it’s just bullshit, wishing me a merry Christmas, bastard was probably drunk when he wrote it…it doesn’t matter, I just haven’t gotten around to throwing it out yet that’s all.” He said. There was something wrong with his tone. Something off. “You should go get changed Myc, just going to have to remember to leave those pajamas here, I don’t have anything else that’ll fit you if you stay over again later.” He said, no warmth or subtly in his tone.

It cut Mycroft’s thoughts off immediately. He hadn’t been expecting a reference to his weight from Greg. Hadn’t expected it to be worded just so harshly. He just stood and looked at Greg for a moment before he turned and walked out to the bathroom to change. He didn’t need the reminder that nothing else would fit. He knew he was by far the biggest person in the house, he didn’t expect them to have anything near his size. It was the last thing he needed after sitting and looking at Greg and his body. He changed and came back into Greg’s room after getting ready. Greg was sitting on his bed crossed legged, staring at the door with those big brown eyes of his.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered. “…I didn’t mean to upset you, and I didn’t mean to say it like that I just wanted to remind you that my mum’ll wash them for you I just…it came out wrong and I was thinking about that bloody letter from my dad. You know how pissed off I get about it.” He said quietly. “It’s not an excuse though that was really shitty of me. You know I don’t care about it.” He said, breaking eye contact as he dropped his eyes to his lap.

Mycroft sighed as he padded over to the bed and carefully took a seat beside Greg, trying not to jostle it too much. “I know you didn’t. It’s okay.” He told him, reaching out and taking Greg’s hands, trailing his finger over the lines in his palm. “I understand, and you’re forgiven.” He said, dropping it. He believed the apology, he knew Greg was upset at the tone he’d taken with him, the fact that it’d hurt Mycroft’s feelings. “We do need to go to sleep though.” He said softly.

Greg nodded pulling back the blanket and waiting for Mycroft to shift so they could both get under before he lay down. Mycroft followed suit, lying back next to Greg to make sure they both fit – the bed was only a double. Greg lay still for a moment before he rolled onto his side and rested his head against Mycroft’s chest, right over his heart. “Love you.” He mumbled, arm curling up over Mycroft’s stomach. Mycroft froze for a moment until he was certain that Greg wasn’t going to move his arm, and exhaled the breath he’d been holding, stomach muscles relaxing too and letting his stomach expand back to how it was when he wasn’t holding it in. He just hoped Greg was too tired to notice that. If he did he didn’t mention it. He waited until Greg’s breaths were soft and slow, almost asleep before he closed his eyes too, not expecting to fall asleep anytime soon, but rather enjoy being so close to Gregory, feel his warm there and just relax until he either fell asleep or became too restless just to lie there. He spoke at the last moment, right when Greg’s breathing suggested he was on the cusp of sleep before he spoke.

“Love you too.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was it! I had a lot of fun writing this one, actually! I hope you liked it! The link to the blog is: http://greg-and-mycroft-answer.tumblr.com/ if you have any questions or anything you wanted to say you can reach me over there, and I should be able to answer pretty quickly. So! Hopefully it won't be forever until I upload again, but you know I'm not the best at keeping my promises about that :P Until next time, thanks for reading!


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